The baggage I must carry

I can almost remember Sleeping on my father’s chest His deep, gentle breaths rocking and laying my body to rest. crying when I had to sleep alone, Because for a long time my dad was my home. I remember reaching out for him like he was the only person I had ever known, I trusted him deeply before we got so far-flown. as I got older my father changed his overall tone. As he got angrier, my attachment became more estranged. Since looking at my face, meant seeing my mother’s, therefore he saw me in vain. As my body matured he no longer laid eyes on a child, but instead the lingering image of a woman he disdained. Though he loves me as a part of himself, I can tell he doesn’t admire the person I became. He doesn’t like how as I aged my hair became coarse, my curls shriveled up tight, and I grew distinctly into my mothers frame. Or how I never received his last name. How I moved away and distanced myself from the thoughts he failed to leave behind. The regret that in this world’s orchard, my mothers tree was the one he chose to climb. That he no longer knew me since he never gave enough grace towards, My body, My voice, Or my race. Even though I took the shade of his skin, And the freckles that dance from the bridge of my nose, down to my shins. Wiped the expressions clean off his face And made them flush to my own. Even though I took the same feelings of anger, and the same spite for sin. Even though I took his eyes that knew how to slice through someone precise and thin. It was never enough for him. Maybe if my mother was white, And I was a little blond headed baby, with eyes that beamed blue as bright as headlights. Or even if my hair was silky straight hanging down, yet still a deep earthy brown, And a sharp nose that was pointed towards the ground. Maybe then would his gaze have softened towards me? Maybe then my hips wouldn’t have stuck out too far, “Far too wide” The stretch marks chasing my curves wouldn’t have been a symbol for his lack of pride. My hair wouldn’t have been stubborn wool that he had to sheer and divide, every morning after the age of five, caking in enough cheap “suave kids” The sweet apple scent that meant that comb was coming in dry, to matte it up as long as it laid flat and accordingly on each side. Throughout the years I’ve wanted to fight. I’ve wanted to scream and heave up the hatred he’s embedded deeply into my life. For him, And for myself. For history that I didn’t even write. But I’ve always kept my tongue tied tight. I’ve allowed him to scream until his face went hot and red. I’ve held back tears that made my throat swell painfully with dread. I’ve stared in the mirror and questioned who I could’ve been instead. I still love my father even though my needs weren’t always met. I think on how he used to say out loud how much he loved me. I remember when he treated my hair with nothing but gentle care before the loose, wavy curls turned into springing coils. Or when he looked at me like I was so precious that I could’ve been royal. my whole life I’ve had to have enough forgiveness for us both, Before I really understood what it was, When I still had a heart full of hope. Before I could understand that I was the target where his bitterness would always land. I’ve had enough forgiveness to muffle out my fathers loathsome drums. To love him, myself, And whoever I may become.