Really Impactful Parent

Karene Horner-Hughes

I cry at every film that involves a black father, even when the acting is bad. 

I cry when I see a black man cycling because he’ll remind me of my Dad.

I cry when I see my Dad in places where I know he is not. 

I cry when I smell certain spices but rarely cry when visiting his plot. 

My friends know my mum’s face, her personality, her laugh.

My best friends didn’t get to meet my Dad before his time had passed. 

But strangers see my Dad first in the colour of my skin, 

People who I don’t know want to know what parts of me are him. 

I wish I could talk to my Dad, to learn more about his family history.

I could ask my auntie’s and uncle’s but I want the stories they didn’t see. 

My Dad was the only black man in the village, known by all the local residents. 

My Dad wasn’t politically correct and didn’t care if he caused any offence. 

There’s so much my Dad didn’t know about me too, so much that he missed. 

We never spoke about my queerness but I hope he wouldn’t care who I have kissed. 

There’s a stereotype of absent black fathers, does my family fit that statistic? 

My Dad was around, and I was there for him, especially when things go shit. 

He’s not just another black man who you’re not able to meet, 

He is my Dad

My nephew’s Grandad

And a man who had epic dancing feet.