not to smile Papa will sip Quietly down enough Jack Daniels to apologize to my mother for the weeks my father spent in a hospital bed For refusing to console his son in the same room as dark flesh For believing black skin could only scar roots and empty trust funds He’ll reach out to her for a hug he never meant when sober Wrinkled arms shaking like teenager stretching for liquor cabinet My mother will smile Politely pat him on his back For a moment in his arms She will picture her father Wish he were here to get drunk Slam a door Yell out something awkward and racist Just to remember what father she never needed Tears blurring eyes They will sit together Each leaning tipsily like pickled fish out of water Passing out on eachother’s shoulders Closer than we have ever been.
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