As a boy, I shared a game with my father, played it until I was 9, he would knock on my door, and I’d pretend to be asleep until he got right next to my bed. Then I would jump right up into my papa’s arms and my papa would tell me he loved me.
His heart was my heart’s quiet home, on his knee I leant love-lore that is not troublesome. We shared a game… Until when the knock never came.
And so 12 years later I write these words for the little boy in me who still awaits his papa’s knock.
Wishing I could shout papa come home ‘cause there are things I don’t know and I thought maybe you could teach me; how to shave; how to dribble a ball; how to talk to a lady; how to walk like a man…papa come home because I decided a while ago that I want to be just like you…but I’m forgetting who you are.
And 12 years later a little boy cries, trying to father himself, and dream up a father who says the words my father did not get to say.
I’m sorry I never came home
For every lesson I failed to teach, hear these words: shave in one direction in strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation.
Dribble the page with brilliance of your ballpoint pen. Walk like a god and your goddess will come to you.no longer will I be there to knock on your door so you must learn to knock for yourself. The best of me still lives in you”
A void in my heart is all there is…clinging so hard on to hope that I , one day, stand tall and say i rose above that.
my pursuit of happiness, a fathers love.