Letter to My Unborn Father

DISCLAIMER: This is a very emotional piece that I wrote several years ago. As for an update, my biological father is now helping me create an avenue for men in prison to reach out to the outside world and share their brilliance. Inside the Wall will become a part of this blog very soon. I hope you appreciate the piece, many had responded while it was on myspace so I felt the need to share the contents with you. Happy Birthday George!


Letter to my unborn Father

Possibly the most personal statement I have ever made to date.

A child was born around 3:41am on the Sabbath Day, always knew the boy would be special because he was born on the Lord’s Day. Like a thief in the night his biological father took off running immediately. Not for good, only for two weeks but those 2 weeks of him missing in action foreshadowed what was to come.

A child is a child, I don’t remember much before the age of four except for maybe one memory at the age of three. Where the child’s mother was cooking, his grandmother and sister were there and a familiar man was at the door. Still that same father only this time he’s not running, for women are strong and when men ain’t shit they tell them to keep going.

Like I said women are strong, so strong it’s frightening if you’re not a strong man. So after a so-called father disrespects the very woman who bore his child with deception, lust, more kids, yes I said more kids; not by her of course, a strong woman leaves. Leaves to find her happiness, which she knows, does not exist within a man who could be so selfish and cruel.

So he writes a letter and the contents of it I will share with you:

Dear Dad,
When I was young I called you daddy to signify the difference between you and my real father. It was a symbol of our love, our relationship, and our connection. A connection I have come to the conclusion we never had. Growing up I knew plenty of kids whose parents weren’t in their life. Being born in the 80’s some parents fled to CRACK, some fell ill with a sickness they first thought was syphilis but today has become a Pandemic known as AIDS.

But many of us young black boys lost our fathers to the system better known as maximum correctional facilities. Sorry, you’re no political prisoner like Mumia, or Assata, NO quite frankly you broke the law and have been caged like an animal ever since.

At an early age I can remember knowing what the term pathological liar meant. My mother didn’t sugar coat things nor did she make them uglier than what they seemed to be. She raised me with my eyes wide open rather than shut so that I could see the wolves in sheep’s clothing. Pretenders, those who said they were with you but really were more out for themselves. Something all these years later I recognize is possible within any relationship, even ours.

In high school I was angry at the lack of a father role that you played. In college I had sympathy for you because I knew how they must have been treating you in those concentration camps, on the outside we are caged mentally but you were physically, mentally at times it seemed even spiritually caged. The trips up north were oh so hard, painful to see the one who is supposed to be your “supreme” in a state that is so desperate. It is unimaginable that this would be a man’s fate, HELL not a man like you, not a man whose mouth is slicker than Stacey Adams shoes. A man whose walk is reminiscent of Malcolm when he was strutting in Boston in them zoot suits. No not you! You, an alleged father, the maker of children who span this earth some aimlessly because of your lack of parenting skills.

I’ve tried to write this letter many times, please don’t mistake my tone for anger, God knows all we need is another angry black man mad at his deadbeat daddy. No my tone is more of disappointment, disappointed at how men can escape their duties. Not mad at you because we made peace four years ago in January of 2002 at that table in that penitentiary where I visited because I thought that if you died I would be somewhat responsible.

My mothers fine, strong as I wrote before, strong enough to take her children find a true man and raise them to be RESPONSIBLE. STRONG enough to go on with her life and find happiness, that’s all the little lady ever talks about, is being truly happy, I’m sure she is. My brothers are growing, their big now, intelligent young fellas, my sisters a nurse she’s doing well for herself. My father, well he’s doing well too you should see us in action. We play chess, laugh about old beatings I got from acting out. He’s a good dude, and I’m thankful I had a father. See a lot of kids cant say that I am just very happy that I can. See I realized that connection I thought we had is false. Years in the pen won’t change you, I won’t change you, she don’t love you so that won’t change you. Players who keep playing get played, they play themselves out, it becomes tired and hopefully they recognize the error in their ways. If not they are relegated to a lifetime of unhappiness, must be that Green Mile they talk about. I say letter to my unborn Father because after 22 years I realized I don’t know you and quite frankly have no desire to.


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