Happy Birthday Daddy (R.I.P)

The Organist’s Daughter

I sit
Amidst
The smell
Of
Disinfectant
&
shit

while you
sleep
seeming
delicately
balanced
between
life & death
I
hold
your hand.

Although
you are
Asleep,
We both know
That you are
Already
dead.

You wait
for Me
to do what
I can
not do.

I
hold your
hand Daddy,
your hand
Which once
held
Belts lashed
into
Young flesh.

You beat us,
you said,
because
When
you were
young…

Sometimes,
I suppose
It takes
more than
Just one
man
To break
a cycle.

Offences were
Arbitrary &
Ebbed &
Flowed
with
The
availability
Of work.

You were
the overseer
Of the plantation
Of our youth.
You were
the guard
Of the bedroom
Which
imprisoned
us.

The punisher
Who whipped
Young virgin
Brown skin
With metal-studded
Leather
(father)

You executed
our
Youth
Beheaded
our hearts
With a
frustrated
Sigh

You midwifed
us
Out
of
our childhood
& birthed
beaten
brothers & sisters

bloodstain your
heart,
your badge
of bitterness—
this
is your
legacy.

Your face
is
Round
like the moon
& as you sleep
I wonder…

You snore.

Daughter touches
Father.
Father flinches.
Have you
forgotten
what it feels
Like
to be touched
with
The taste
of love
On fingertips?

I would
never
Touch you
Like this
If you
were
Awake
only
Behind
the
Unconsciousness
Of
sleep.

Solemnity is
Broken by your
Snore.

As a boy
you rummaged
Through
the armpits
of
Port-of-Spain
Trinidad
&
as a man,
The streets
of Brooklyn.

You are from
behind the bridge—
The ghetto:
A place
Where poverty
punctures
Stomachs
(& dreams)
Yet which
cradles
Culture…

Your father
too
A musician—
He too
to die
In a place
other
Than his
birthplace:
St. Vincent

He too
a musician:
Box guitar.
We are
inventive
People.

At 16
you Quit
Books
to lime—
Play music
at Miramar
Amongst
Sailors &
Prostitutes

As
a girl,
Suffering
polyester
Convent Uniforms
Under
the unforgiving
sun,
I walked
along
the Savannah
To Frederik Street,
Or better yet,
past the ice-cream
colored
chipped walls
of
Belmont &
I often
eyed
Young
Tranquility
Boys,
Hoping to
Catch
a glimpse of
You.

(See, although
apart
you
will
always
Reside
in my heart).

Even with
drug-induced
Letters
written from
Single
occupancy rooms
In Brooklyn
Telling me of your
Redemption.
I always
Believed in
You.

I have
heard about you
In your youth.
Rolling joints
(& lies)
to the girl
at your side.

Wet elbows
on
Tables that shake
With laughter.

Rum
& coke,
beaded curtains
& juke box
Calypso.

Black business
Released from
Too tight hearts:
Quincy Jones
Roy Ayers…
Gil…
Jimi Smith
Clarence Curvin
Joey Lewis
Fitz Voghn Bryan
Rythms
that offered
a way.
Pent
up fires
Burnt
below
Scorched skin.

You wanted
Better jobs
Better homes,
That flashy
Green
suede suit.

Forget the sun
Forget the sun
Whose heat
Renders most
Incapacitated
(including dreams)
until it dips
into the
whispering water

& life
Begins.

The cool
Evening
descends
& the
Night Life
liberates you.


You wanted
To be men
Men whose
Footsteps
Thumped
down the dirt
Roads with pockets
Weighed down
From all the money
Earned.

You wanted to be
Stars
So that
In the
times
The moon
Refused
to shed
Light
in the
Darkness of
Your mother’s
Worried minds,
You could.

You meet my
Mother
Then 15
You fall
For her despite
Her yellow
Which threatens
To rub off
And scatter like
Pollen
On your lips.

Back in a small
Wooden
Caribbean room
With glass
Louvers
Constructed to
Keep out
The torrent
Of rain—
Not the heaviness
Of young love
Which splatters
hard
You seal your
Fate.

You look at her
Your teeth
White
Foiled by skin
Black
You swallow her whole
& she a child
crosses a threshold
she has yet to
admit.

Fast forward:
1972
I am born
you hold me
through
the
March snow
To the warmth
Of an
Ocean
Avenue
Apartment,
Brooklyn.

I am
so quiet,
You say,
So quiet
That one day
You pinch
Me,
Just to see
If I could speak
& ever since that
day,
you’d tell
me,
I have
yet
to shut up.

I hugged
you
Once,
The mournful
Blows
of Coltrane
Signaled
the
Finality.

How lucky
Am I
to
Know
that this
Embrace
is the
Last?

No more
Hospital
rooms,
No more
bewildered
looks
From you
as
you peer
From a
window
Pane
of
bitterness,
no
More
awkward
attempts
To bring
you back
to
Life.

Finally
You
succumb
To your
nightmares

Your soft
Body crashes
On cold cement
To be found
By strangers
Unidentified
Once warm, like
Bread, with life
Now cold,
As cold as
The steel table
You
now
Lay on,
Finally at rest.

& so I hold your
hand Daddy
as you wait for
me to do
what I
can not do—
& finally as in
life,
I let you
go,
as
I scatter
your
ashes
Daddy
among
the very paths
in Prospect Park
where you
once held
my little hands,
as you ushered
me
into the
world teaching
me Daddy,
through your
own loud mistakes
(thank you Daddy)
because in the end
you are you
in all your perfection
& now Daddy
& now, I let
go of your hand because
in the end you are at last,
I hope, at peace
& I,
I am Your Legacy.

Copenhagen, 2007