About Father

He, the great
who knows he is great,
takes his time with sturdy shoes
and a shop full
of the world’s next wonders
carving for himself a legacy
that he knows
is a legacy.

So many hate him
for knowing it.

He, the rich,
who only speaks not of it
because, to him,
there’s a romance
to being poor.
He buys experiences and then
that not everyone can
experience it,
no matter how hard they work.

So many hate him
for ignoring it.

He, the ambitious,
sees the world is open wide,
travel, luxaries, food,
anything he wishes
at his feet,
neverminding his children
who scramble after him
with lines in their brows
and worry for their stomachs.
“You can do anything,”
he tells them,
ignoring that all they want
is food and home.

So they hate him
for not understanding.

But I,
product of the great
only see that he is great.
What am I to feel about that?

Not proud,
for he did not raise me,
nor am I great as well,
nor do I receive any fruit
of his greatness.
I but have his genes
and was left to grow
in the desert.

Not hateful,
for I know him to hold
no spite or ill-will.
And, perhaps, I’m wrong after all
to say he doesn’t understand
or doesn’t see.
And he did gain his great
by his own effort.

It only reflects on me
if I choose to begrudge him.

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