PoetrySad Poems

Black Father’s Day

I am a product of circumstances,
A fruit brewed in terror.
Mom was young and innocent
and you made her life without form.

As I grew, needing a father
Mind travelled, questions surfaced
Yet mother says I had no father…
All I’ve got are monsters.

I go daily to school, bearing this stigma
Knowing I’m a son of a thousand monsters;
While other kid hold their pops in their hand
Bitterness and resentment are members of my band.

Which of you do I call father?
The one who held her hands
as heavy blow exploded in her head
Like a volcano brushing off the mountain top.

Which of you do I call Father?
The one who tore her dress—
Killing her over and over again.
Even hell had pity on her.

Which of you do I call Father?
Is it you that blocked her screams
and successfully disrupted her chords?
Thank you. You all deserve a round of applause.

Flipping through the heartfelt verses
and tributes to great Dads and heroes,
It dawned on me that I needed someone to teach me how to be a man.
Where will I find one or rent one for even a day?

This day, I’ll sing the world my sad song,
I hope they listen and share in my miserable joy.
I hope they see the blood beneath this verse,
I hope they see how my pen bled on father’s day.

Why not share?

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