Past the Midpoint (Poem)

So because we’re past the midpoint of this year, and I’ve clearly failed in my goal of writing, editing, and posting more…

 

I’m going to write a poem today.

One for the masses;

for mothers and fathers with

premature babies,

stuck in hospital rooms, with

incubators or isolettes.

With teeny tiny diapers,

allowing only the NICU nurse to change them.

 

I didn’t get to change my daughter’s first diaper.

It sucked. But then

I saw her mother hold her

for the first time,

and I saw my family

for the first time

and I began to breathe

for the first time,

in a long time.

 

And my life changed

as the country changed leadership,

and the ship that 

seemed to Hope,

couldn’t float, and in waves

we took to the street — 

In solidarity and confusion

we asked:

What did we just do? How in the hell

did that happen?

Then true colors were shown

in Charlottesville,

when words were not strong enough

and hoods removed to display

45

in all his divisiveness.

And we had to remember,

this is not post-racial,

there is no post-racial.

 But there are clocks

with hands, that can be

turned back.

 

I am a father now,

I must continue to fight

for what is right,

for what is fair.

And still more disasters,

happened in Houston, 

while 45 tweeted book promos,

and complaints.

I worried about the 

people in waters brown, up to 

knees, flooded cars, lives in ruin.

Reminding me of Katrina,

while my own father was dying;

Reminding me 

I am now a father.

I must continue to educate, 

and document. 

To remember, 

to be able to show the future

what went wrong.

Under the shadow of dual jobs;

one as educator, the other as 

caretaker for schizophrenics,

there was yet one more 

divide.

DACA — Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals

Defined by 44,

Destroyed by 45.

To be alive in such a 

time

that so much could occur in such short

time,

that so much ignorance could stew in such little 

time.

I have no time, as dual jobs defer

my days from my daughter;

I make precious moments count.

Counting with her, showing her colors, 

while carrying her on my shoulder, watching her smile,

I let her know, it’s ok.

I let her know, Daddy’s here.

Through all the recent 

hopeless disasters 

the country has gone through,

we’re still here. Mama’s here, Daddy’s here,

and so is she.

My little fighter. Born three months too early,

she fought through tubes, and wires,

isolettes, and first touches with rubber gloves,

instead of soft Mother’s skin.

She knows of disaster, even if 

she’s too young to comprehend. 

She is not afraid, she shows no fear,

she faces it,

head on like hurricanes heading to the shore.

She is certain she will make it.

And I, her father

am reassured.

©2017 Clarence