Mr. Fatherless

My son, I will not be the stereotypical American father you imagined. When we play sports, I will throw baseballs through your mother’s windows and lose frisbees in the trees of our front lawn. On the Fourth of July, I will be too busy making a bonfire in the grill to actually cook anything. And I will spend far too much time baking and reading to watch football with you. I do not fish, I do not like smoking, and I do not enjoy fighting another person’s battles. I will, however, be a teacher. I will show you how to cook, how to speak other languages and write worlds into being. When you fall in love or become frustrated because of some mercurial romance, I will be there to explain them as best I can– and I’m sorry– because with all my experience, I will fail miserably. I will teach you how to fight and stand up for yourself. To treat others with respect no matter their color or gender. You will learn to hold the door for someone, to look both ways before crossing a street. You will learn to mind your manners, your “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.” In the end my child of Africa, China, India, England, or even Harlem, you will learn from a father nonetheless. And I will give you a home.