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
your complexity,
the whole of the man
that was,
the multidimensional you.
Oh, I know
that I was
your collossal
and how
that gnawed
at you,
like the cancer
that claimed you.
But why not?
For I never
ascribed to true
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 nonetheless.
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.

This poem is about: 
My family


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