8 generations separate us, my father.
Almost 2 centuries, though it feels much farther.
Many moons and seasons have passed,
Since you walked this changing world last.
Now all complexions are thrown into the American melting pot—
People shout their heritages and worship their papas.
My Portuguese padre, a word with your “African” son?

People say the resemblance is as precise as a smoking gun
The traits that my mother, grandfather, and I possess
Come from the greatness that was a vice president
A kind heart and some say I inherited your looks.
I inherited feelings that racism is a crook.
What’s the crime? It is prejudice.
But there’s no punishment until it manifests.
I am grateful, because through time and relation,
I can sympathize with your situations.


What patriot would put his fellow man in chains?
Never would I like to see that again
For though my skin is dark,
I feel that all my races are a vital part
The job of a man can be stressful
Those people made you surrender to indulgence
But those same people didn’t have the responsibilities and involvement
They waited too long to apologize
Because by that time your integrity was compromised
Reimbursement only after your were close to dying.
My father…