Papa Made Me Proud
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Just the other day, I saw a man working with tools.
He is the proprietor of "Paris Blues"
He reminded me of my father.
Before his scars
Before his umbilical unsevered
Before the hurricane season
Papa made me proud.
Mama once spoke of comforts
His hands spinned
He and mother were in love
She lend me her mahogany gift
He carved smooth for her,
Papa made me proud.
I loved him in spite of nine fingers
One was severed on his job
I loved him even as he lingered long
I loved him though his presence was cut short,
Papa made me proud.
I watched him dig holes for renewal
I heard him strain, I heard his sighs; our house stood firm
I felt his energy, his passion for family,
Papa made me proud.
He rarely complained as he worked
He worked, and loved, and cried, and drank
He was drenched; spoiled, in Granny's love, yet,
Papa made me proud.
I can only imagine
He would trace many course for healing.
*
Copyright © Iris E. S-Lewis | Year Posted 2015
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