Letters Written In Fetters - 3

My dear son, It is morning, this is our new beginning of conversation So we conditioned to dream Need no more soothsayers or magicians We like our own Daniel Must bow and beg in bleached out petitions. Every condition generates a response Dreams are the hopes of a wingless generation. We gave been conditioned to fail That a social contract may be viable to make you hero Let me begin this day with an apology That shall erase all phony humility Bred out of sickness inculcated in our process An age with so many doctors And a doctor for everthing Says the world is sick And shall not die until all are dead; (I once met a man pursuing a doctorate in spit And cannot tell if his pursuit was swift enough To catch his lightning in the snail years of academia) Enough of morbidity I am apologising for my mortality Than you and will not have time enough To right the wrongs of history But we may begin with a new honesty. For the times we were apart After your birth was a sun opening the calyx of my heart That I could flower into more than manhood When you cried upon my chest, then laughed to sleep Because my lullaby was off-key And your squirming made me feel fragile And we were both vulnerable of ignorance Because tradition says it was not in our place To recover the warm sentimentality of the race That gave me pride each moment you rubbed your eyes awake This was time after time when I crawled on the rug Beside you, discovering what I did know about myself Recovering lost memories suppressed of our ancestors past How they had no independence in cane nor cotton And were not permitted to be interdependent and find In childhood space to bloom their humanity.