Letters Written In Fetters - 4
Dearest son,
This was the time I held your hand
And then let you go again and again from a standing position
Hoping you would understand and trust me still
Because sometimes I did not catch you fast enough
But helped you, so you knew to get up whenever you fell
Yeah, fathers miss things you will not remember
When you climb the beanstalk to steal the golden goose.
I apologise because I miss the unannounced end.
Truth is son,
Until plantation owners reinvented fatherhood again
And made us believe we were surrogates
Of countries we call mother England
And after my ancestors melted until they were black
Making money for a leisure class of maniacs
Fishing was something a boy discovered by himself
Like dolls house, and that sudden look in a girl's eyes
And you would have been greater than Columbus to yourself
Discovering how to make a top or shoot a marble
So that you only needed when the thunder rolled
A giant was close to climbing down that beanstalk in your dreams
It was then I had to leave
For golden goose don't drop from giant skies
And the source of true economy
Is not the competence at strategy
But the dwindling reservoir of environment
After we were fenced out of the common property.
Our hearts were shackled together
We wore fetters, chains and prisons like skin
And I was not permitted to be sold
Transported, deported, excommunicated without you
For you are not supposed to see the father until you see the sun
Father and son are one only for the sinister of the conspiracy
But they feared you more than they feared me
If the minotaur did not kill you, then you were to hate me
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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