The Wounds Of My Father
the wounds of my father I carry
etched forever in my heart—
I do not blame him—for he could not give
what he never received,
in his mind he was a better man
better than he ever knew if he knew
a father—
I will not pass on these intergenerational wounds,
they are here to stay and stay they will but healed,
fester no more will they inside the caves of my heart,
rot no more will they within my flesh,
the wounds that men thought brave could never heal
I—the one all of them thought weak
will heal with the care they did not have
with the love they did not give
with the patience they never received
I am a man but what is a man?
if not a structure of protection
a giver of peace,
that one who bears his chest open
and takes the bullet without hesitation,
I am the father my father was not for me,
I am not just the provider
I am the fiber of harmony,
in the blanket of our family
I am the kiss upon the cheek of my son’s face
teaching him that masculinity
is allowed to be fragile and supple
delicate and tender
and still—he is a man—
for a man is not defined by the strength upon his arms
but that with which he carries the burdens of the world
the echoes of past traumas
and with it he builds the foundation
of a stronger home,
with it he builds a family that thrives
and rises from the obscurity of the past
I am a man, but what is a man
if not a family man,
perhaps I misunderstood you, father
for you could not give what you never received
but I can—I already have, and for him I always will.