my father
rarely spoke directly to me
instead he spoke to the family
while grouped at the dinner table,
pacing like a storefront preacher
before a timid flock
he told us stories about the
niggers at work, it bothered me
though my only bravery
was silence
at night i often heard my mother
cry out from downstairs in the den
and still did nothing
he called me "boy" when he was drunk,
i grew to feel unimportant
and small
in the broadened shadow of
his neck feathers raised
made sure i understood
i was not yet a man
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
You have most certainly struck a deep & resonant chord with this one, Scribe. Several years after my parents divorced (after 21 years), I came home to find my mother holding the phone, weeping. My dad was on the other end. I told her to hang up; she wouldn't ~ or couldn't. I grabbed the phone & read him the freakin' riot act. A few years later, before he passed away, he told me he was proud of me for sticking up for her, for standing up for myself. I wished I could have felt pride, but all I ever felt in his presence was a sense of unease ~ & sometimes, only fear...that saddens me to no end. He passed away in 1983. He was 70 when I was 21. Yet...I still miss him. As I told my younger brother, we cannot blame our parents for their "failures", since we never could understand what kind of childhood they'd had. We all do the best we can with what we have to give at the time. I forgave him long ago. Forgiving myself is so much more difficult. Good luck in Zayra's contest. 
