Dad’s house stands again,
four yearsafter being demolished.
I walk in.
He lies in bed,
licks his rolling paper,
and when I ask Where have you been?
We buried you, he says I know,

I know.
I lean into his smoke,
tell him
I went back to Jamaica.
I met your brothers,
losing  you made me need them.
He says something I don’t hear. What?  Moving lips,
no sound.
I shake my head.
He frowns.

Disappears.
I wake in the hotel room,
heart drumming.
I get up slowly,
the floor is wet.
I wade into the bathroom,
my father stands by the sink,
all the taps running.
He laughs and takes

my hand, squeezes.
His ring digs into my flesh.
I open my eyes.
I’m by a river,
a shimmering sheet of green marble.
Red ants crawl up
an oak tree’s flaking bark.
My hands are cold mud.
I follow the tall grass
by the riverbank, the song.
My Orisha,
Oshun in gold bracelets and earrings,
scrubsher yellow dress in the river.
I wave, Hey!
She keeps singing.
The dress turns the river

gold and there’s my father surfacing.
He holds a white and green drum.
I watch him
climb out of the water, drip toward Oshun.

They embrace.
My father beats his drum.
With shining hands, she signs: Welcome.

My father beats his drum.

#acceptance

© Lon the badass writter

@Writco

@abhi45