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. *
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