So this weekend, we celebrate fathers, right? This poem is about a father/son relationship that in the end, may not be the happy ending most people desire, but it speaks volumes to boys and men around the world who as children longed for their fathers. In my case, it was what it was. The journey that God had me on didn't include my biological father but He (God) put men (real men) in my life that set examples for me of what real men were. They helped nurture me, guided me, chastised me, and taught my how to conduct myself in public, in the presence of women and my elders. They taught me that respect was more than a word, it was an action and in order to get it, you had to give it....but to never automatically expect it. They taught me that being a man meant more than, dick or driving a Cadillac, more than fighting or pissing behind a tree. I learned about how to take care of the sick, how to feed a stray dog and how to stretch a dollar. I learned how to cut my own grass and take out a little time to cut my neighbors too or to say a kind word to the brother that was down on his luck and then give him a swig from the flask tucked away in your coat pocket. I learned how to fix a flat and build a dog house, but most importantly, stand up for what I believed in and never be to proud to say, I am sorry. They taught me how to pray and cry out to God but at the same time, hold back tears in an attempt to look strong for others who needed your strength. I learned how to hug another man without feeling or looking, "soft". I ultimately learned that no matter how strong or invincible you may seem, we all grow old and at one point in our lives, will have to depend on someone else to help us make it from day to day and then, in the end, we die and leave this earth in hopes that something we did, "right" stays in the heart of some young man we leave behind.
Wow, God is good and while on this Fathers day, I can't say that I am going all out for my old man. But I do thank God that he is alive and healthy and hope that he finds that much needed inner peace concerning his relationship with his children because I sure haven't. Read with a grain of salt...
Lost Father
Alas, my long-lost father to me has returned
to tell me of things I’d already learned.
I opened the door and welcomed him in
to sit and tell of where he had been.
I showed no emotion, not even a smile,
he started to cry and stare for a while.
He looked me down from my head to my feet,
placed his hand on my shoulder in a manner so sweet.
Looked me in my eyes and proceeded to say,
“Son, let me tell you why I went away.”
Before he could start, I cut in with haste
but choked at the startled look on his face.
“I know who you are and I know where you’ve been
so I won’t start with remembering when
as a child the wonderful things that I missed
as other boys played football, kited and fished
with their fathers who loved them enough to stay,
to lead, protect and show them the way.
Taught them to love, respect and then
showed them how to become real men.
Who was there on graduation day?
Just my mama, but that’s O.K.
I always felt that it was a shame
that you weren’t around but I carried your name.
Dear sir, you see now I’m 40 years old
but remember as a child the truth was then told
of the real reason you chose to walk away
and why you have come to my door today.
You felt the need to stray for a while
while my mother was carrying an unborn child.
Even the reality of the story was whack,
mother always said one day you’d come back.
So now that you’re old and alone
you need a place that you can call home.
But I’m sorry, my friend, my home is full
with the love that you left … and that’s no bull.
I haven’t yet learned just how to forgive
you for the life that you chose to live.
I’ll ask you to leave now to close my door
to my home and my heart to hurt no more.”
As he turned in anguish and walked away
I knew I would regret what I did that day.
So then, about a week after my deed,
I pulled out my morning paper to read.
Just curious to know of who had passed
I saved the death section to look through last.
When I turned the page, I froze in time
and stared in eyes that were just like mine.
I felt the hurt, I carried the shame
but managed to notice they misspelled his name.
Canyou is spelled with a capital “C”,
last name, F-O-R-G-I-V-M-E.
I sat in this horror and for hours I cried
that alas, my long-lost father had died.
WYLD STYLZ
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