My daddy had ebony skin
but he liked his women redbone and thin
My daddy had muscles that were barbed
but his gut was more jutting
My daddy had eyes as big and wide as the ocean
I see him in these pupils of mine and the creases that shadow them
as his carbon copy not a day went by that someone neglected to tell me.
I remember, sitting on your lap,
my limps sinking in comfort upon your cologne shrouded chest
I remember your fingernails
as filthy
as men I know now
I remember your green, 1995 Jeep Grand cherokee
arriving
then
Leaving
our driveway
I remember how “I love you baby” twisted off your tongue—skepticism etched in my ears for eternity.
I was 16 when grandpa called about your departing
but at my core,
I remained at that window—a longing little girl—watching your Jeep Grand Cherokee
Leave.
Nowadays I meet suitors as sweet as you were,
and they love me
just the same
