my father's eyes are
red, white, and blue.
third generation immigrant,
he is proud of what he has done,
of what this country's allowed him to become. 

he tells me stories of 
my grandfather in the navy.
how he had to see his
brothers die, eaten by
sharks in the Pacific due to
kamikazes coming down like
violent, deadly hail. 

he tells me of the '70s.
he shares the fears of a
younger man who barely
escaped being drafted.
who escaped the fists of
cops with hate in their souls
who only didn't get beat by 
the cops meant to protect because
he could outrun their hate. 

he calls foul when
athletes take a knee for
the national anthem, 
protests march against his president, 
how the media is no longer real. 

i watch a man,
a man who's always
been one of the smartest 
in my world,
fall for the tricks meant to
blind and mislead.

i sat with him, 
watching our president's
farewell address and felt the
smack of 'nigger'
falling from my father's lips,
hitting me across the cheek. 
how it tainted our living room floor.

i sit here and beg,
plead with him to not go 
over the edge.
yet he runs toward it, 
ready to embrace an 
America made for him. 

my arguments,
my facts,
they are drowned out with
his chants of 
'make america great again'. 

my father is a Catholic.
but as the days go on
Trump seems to become his God.