Poems

Baggage

My love is a suitcase with no zipper.

You try to close it, but it winds up back to square one.

I tell you to “come quick” to help,

Then you hold the sides while I try to stuff my longing back inside.

Even when it’s shut, it bulges. You can see what I’m trying to hide.

I hand it to you, gently, flinching as if you’re going to drop it.

I say “careful, it’s fragile” without ever telling you what’s inside.

I pack love and fear side by side, maybe I wanted them to spill.

I pre-break my heart just in case,

Then I leave it somewhere inside my suitcase.

Maybe if I break it, you won’t.

I convince myself love is temporary so it hurts less when it isn’t.

My face is a photocopy of someone who didn’t stay.

I inherited your features, not your presence.

I spent most of my life watching other kids happy, doing things

With their fathers, enjoying their childhood.

While all you really did was give me your DNA and call it “Fatherhood”.

And now I’m stuck with a face that will always stay.

I don’t hate you,

No. I hate the way you echo in me.

In the past.

Every day, the mirror reminds me I’m a living receipt of love that didn’t last.

She sees you when she sees me sometimes, so I look away.

Your absence was the first thing I learned to carry.

You’re not a ghost. But you act like a shadow with a bank account.

And when I see my reflection,

I hear my inner child crying;

4-year-old me, by the door.

From that very day I knew my heart had been torn.

– Anonymous

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Treasure the Feelings of Her Birth

For my son, Jawara, and my granddaughter, Quetzalli

i was not there when your daughter— my only granddaughter— entered this world but you called me not long after your voice trembling with something holy.

“Mommy, I cried,” you said, “tears just flowed from my eyes when I saw her. she is a precious miracle.” and she is as are you

i see you already becoming the father she needs— the one who walks beside her, reads stories with soft voices, guides water over her small body, nurtures her with calm hands

but more than that, i know you will root her in the soil of her people, teach her the strength of her name,

the rhythm of her ancestry.

this is how she will rise — fortified, radiant, whole.

and i must tell you what you already know: there will be challenges. she may resist you. she may question the path. she may take steps you did not imagine.

but let this feeling— this joy, this awe, this moment when you first held her— be your anchor. let it be the light by which you guide her. let it shape your discipline, your patience, your love.

Fatherhood is sacred. and a girl needs her father just as deeply as a boy does.

you, my son, who have known love, must remain steady— protector and teacher, a mirror reflecting her worth.

let every memory she forms with you reinforce her courage, her dignity, her sense of being deeply loved.

so that when she stands grown and strong, and speaks of her daddy, she will speak through eyes filled with love, with safety, with pride, with a quiet knowing that she was always held, seen, and cherished.

This journey is yours. And it is beautiful.

Continue steadfast and full-hearted. With love— your mother.

– Opal Palmer Adisa

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