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.
Wampum by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Memphis Resurrection by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Dreams of My Father by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
The Gospel of Barbecue by Honorée Fannonne Jeffers
Honorée Fanonne Jeffers / The Prophetess Sojourner Truth Discusses the Two Different Versions of Her Most Well-Known Speech, One Nearly Unknown and One Very Beloved Yet Mostly Untrue
Washita Battlefield National Historic Site by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Chorus of the Mothers-Griot by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Naming Ceremony by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Honorée Fanonne Jeffers / Lost Letter #1: Phillis Wheatley, Boston, to Susannah Wheatley,BostonSelah Honorée by Fanonne Jeffers
Post a Comment