J PAUL Marker Drawing Primitive folk art

Her Daddy


My friend’s father was a quiet man

Tall and proud and rarely loud.

Teacher by profession, mechanic by trade

But he had the occasional tirade.

We stood in shock at the market gate one Saturday

A man with a cart pushed past her daddy,

And without a though he grunted,

‘damn nasty boy, look at his dirty head’.

The boy to whom he referred had gone in a hurry,

But I recalled his turban when he paused to say sorry,

And realized then that him being Rastafari

Was the main cause of her father’s fury.

Another evening as we passed my Indian neighbour

He snickered and whispered, ‘they’re the nastiest ever’.

I wondered later that night, where he got that from

Knowing they weren’t friends and that he barely knew the man.

After a traffic stop one day by two police men

His forehead wrinkled as he drove off and said then,

‘Look at those two uniformed idiots

Causing pure chaos with their random stops’.

I spent a lot of time with my friend

Her father often spewing verbal garbage no end.

And blamed those he hated for every thing

Every issue, every problem, and every sin.

My friend explained to me one day

In her room with an air of secrecy,

That her father was a good man, but troubled

By all the prejudices he held against others.

Years later as a geriatric and alone,

Her father required special care at home.

My friend hired an ex-cop Indian Rasta nurse,

He was too helpless and feeble to curse.

She confided to me that she had chosen

That nurse in particular and for one reason,

So he’d see how he wasted so much time hating

Humans who just like himself were simply living.


Ria – 2015