Father

And so, all is forgiven
in death.
And the decade that
has passed since
your passing
has diluted
my memories
of your gruffness.
We all mellow
with age.
I too, am
no longer as
I once was-
not the young rebel,
not the wild militant.
Thus, I can now
see
your complexity,
the whole of the man
that was,
the multidimentional
you.
Oh, I know
that I was
your colossal
disappointment
and how
that gnawed
at you,
like the cancer
that claimed you.
But why not?
For I never
ascribed to true
glory,
only infamy;
Still, am I really
just a former femme fatale
resigned to nothingness?
Or is there a redemption
a saving grace
even for me?
And father, you
understood this
sparkle of promise
and it almost
erased the shame
I brought.
This gift of sorts
originated with you-
teller of stories
lover of language
and it became my manna
in the wilderness-
my sweet, bubbling oasis
in my desert of
prison.
And you, father,
50's freedom fighter
passed the torch to me-
penitentiary poet
and I took it
in trembling hands
with the flame sometimes
flickering and dimming,
but burning nontheless.
So we, weavers of words
have our link
now, besides blood.
And this craft that
is ours
binds us
through time and history
and now transcends
even your grave
it is a redemption
between us
coming too late-
or,
perhaps not.