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.