For Frank Fitch

By Mona Lisa Saloy

Papa was born a slave in Alabama

before the Civil War's end

or so he thought.

Said, the war'd been over since 1865,

and it must've been past '85

leaving the Fitch plantation for Mississippi then New Orleans

Didn't nobody tell 'em that slavery was over,

was against the law to read and write,

but Papa figured it was time to be free.

     Papa lived free with a youngun

he loved forever as his brother.

Neither one saw their momma.

Didn't need no proof, Artigis says,

When Lanky Frank ate,

he ate too.

Papa said, "things get betta

and harda every day."

Said, "evva since their neck collars

(were) cut, they stuck

together like nappy hair on African folks

from the Fitch plantation

to New Orleans,"

to Papa's own Baptist Church,

Mt. Zion on North Robertson Street

his too-many, children, great-grandchildren,

and to television.

Past one hundred and ten,

Papa still called me a "yella child."

His tobacco wad of spit

landed just below the rim of his rusty tin

as he rocked on the from porch

smiling, thinking, and watching me

play in the dirt.

     I watched Papa rock, and think, and smile every day.

Papa never got to see me sit freely

on busses or go to a white movie house.

Papa never knew I'd go a white college or ride in an airplane.

Papa said, "things gonna be betta and harda

every day child."

posted 26 October 2005