Semira Killerbrew

Once I stole a candy bar

Because I didn’t have enough money.

My fingers were sticky, like honey,

And my father caught me.

He told me it hurt him more than me,

But I could feel the sting of the leather

As it smacked my skin, and I wondered

If he would strike again.

But I was naïve to the fact

That this is how he’d been taught

To survive, my father, a strong

But gentle man plagued by injustice,

A flower grown from concrete.

He ached in agony when he struck me,

Yet he struck again.

I cried, sad over his disappointment,

Not because of the pain, but my father

Wiped the tears from my eyes

As he cried inside.

Tough love, he called it.

He explained that America, the mental

Whip, had left deep scars, wounds

That spread deep and wide, like roots

From an old tree. He built me strong,

Knowing that I would be able to endure

Any pain the world would throw at me.

Striking me was his best way of protecting

Me, because he knew that America wouldn’t

Let it slide if I slipped once.

The belt menacingly lingers behind our doors,

Waiting. As children, these moments are our monsters

In the closet. As adults, we understand that our parents’

Wrath after wrongdoings is better than being dead

On a lonely street, sealed in a cold cell or buried

Six feet deep beneath our feet.