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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 |
