Dreams of My Father by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

 

Dreams of My Father

BY HONORÉE FANONNE JEFFERS

Or a man who looks like him.

I only know I call him Daddy

(as all southern women

do until the day we die).

In my dreams he is still alive

and this is not a comfort.

I am my best when tragic.

Grief becomes me.

Daddy is more real in death,

eyes dark, undimmed

by the grave, smile less sincere.

Matter clings to his thick

eyebrows, his mouth spits mud

when he tries to talk. He is candid.

He tells me he liked my sisters better than me.

Most times I search for him in a crowd

of counterfeit Daddies.

I look for pieces of him.

An elbow. Black hair on the back

of a pale neck. If I find him,

I will say, Is that you?

I know you this time.

KISS

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