Black Poetry : Heroes Should Never Replace Your Dad


Jan 22, 2017
Manchester, UK
By Quassan Castro

I wonder if you know the multi-colored rainbow
festering inside in each line of my eyes, gave way to a
choked charcoal colour

as you gave birth to a new life with strangers
who cries must have not been louder than the cries
in our house of rancour

An eerie silence followed your departure
A silence only solitary confinement knows so well
like gum knows the bottom of my Buster Browns

A silence spoken to a burial ground where rat-infested caskets dwell

Even with each purple cut
down my bruised back
drawn from your raging buckle,
I still miss you today on 911-78
my birthday

I opened this card with shades of green and twists of awkward yellow hearts
painted down the side
wishing the signature was from dad
it was from mom again
She gives me hallmarks on my born day-
A reminder that single moms rock, though really they are no more valued
by extreme conservatives than lower poor class workers are valued
by haughty elites

Mom tried to convince me
Jesus was my Father up until seven,
I waited everyday for Jesus to step into the third floor of our cockroach-infested apartment
I wanted Jesus to talk to me about the birds and the bees
I wanted to ask Jesus why...
Why we moved from city to city?
Why I only had just enough to eat?
Why Ma had to become mother and father all wrapped in one?
Why my stomach cramped so bad from worry?
Why when I needed my dad the most
he was moonlighting with garden tools?

He never showed up

Fueled and charged like an angry bull, I collapsed myself into an orbit of melancholy because I needed you to love me
like peanut butter loves jelly
like salt loves pepper
like milk loves chocolate
like macaroni loves cheese
like Dr. Huxtable loves Theo
like white folks love Elvis
like black folks love Aretha Franklin
like Herman Munster loves Eddy
like Ward loves Beaver
like Biggie loved Tupac before the east coast west coast saga
like platinum blonde hair loves Mary J.
like Nicki Minaj loves Barbie
love me
like Zora loved Mule Bone so much
she stole it
like Baldwin loved his writing pen
like Shakespeare loves couplets
possibly like a father should love a son.

You think I’m dramatic, right?
You think I’m seeking material to pull from my life and your life, right?
I’m lusting after sensationalism, perhaps
Capitalizing off of your inner wayward ambition to be free from parenting
Sleeping in my own blood barrel of egotism
You think I’m attempting to vomit my own star persona
Coughing up my inner actor
onto this stage
called life
But Dad, I cry at night
Humans with damaged souls hurt deeply
As you look at my soul
I want you to see me as a human being
Not as a f/king check written in the amount of 35 dollars a week
See daddies are supposed to be like a hero but heroes should never replace your dad

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