The Communist Father by Ka'Mone Felix

Let us speak of fathers
of mine
Of the way he holds highway to sleeve when he trusts in running
Of the way he drives
Both hands to the steering wheel
Pulse to leather
All racetrack eulogy and crying man
Of tough.
Of soft and tough.
Like daddy's should be.

I am his first born
With a tongue like his mother's
And his laugh.
Guttural battle
yawning laugh
Open hearted and stolen.
We laugh
Like happiness is paperweight to be found
And lost again
Like pebbles
Quaking in the belly of
A 1920's medusa
Tendrils outstretched
Waiting for allah to swallow the fingerprints
Bent at the torso
Knee slapping and careful

He is
The quietest man I've known to date
Red flag of a tongue
Opinions
Filtered into bolts of honest
For his daughters
He tells me
That once
When he almost couldn't control his words
(And this is da
This never happens)
He let his anger
All manifest and corrosion of it
Drive him to canada
In less than 24 hours
Foot to pedal
Because engine knows control
Engine knows heartbreak
And break down
And tune up
And creak and fold
Knows control
Knows everything he wants me to know

I know
More than he thinks I know
I know
That he is a man
Who is not afraid
Just too aware
His daughters
Will always be the pages of the prayer book
That have remained untouched
Even when they've been touched too hard

He will not believe.
He is too good.
Too honest.
Too deity.
Too aware to believe in such treachery
To believe that for once
Driving will not make it go away
For once
There is no engine to sputter
At the grunt of a bad turn
He’s had more cars
Than he’s had children
But understands now,
That the three of us are what will last.

Maya is his youngest
His second daughter
She is still a baby
Only milk mouthed and
Spittle gums
She barely knows me
Can identify the spill of my cheekbones
In photographs
And calls me some resemblance of "keemoan"

When she is older
She will understand how proud I am to know
That we share the same father
That there is nothing different of my childhood with him
We will both know of
Shoulders
Of moon touching
And the pierced ear of his rebel days
Of Guerilla fighting
Of paint brush and charcoal palms
Of oatmeal
and tea
With never enough sugar
Of half face smiles
And of driving.