Dear father, please forgive the way
I’ve cursed and defied you,
And that I have lacked the courage
to tell you what was true.
The brutal way you taught us each,
your children, to be good,
And why you seemed to hate us all,
we never understood.
I’m speaking now about the pain
of welts that striped my back
And all the times you slapped my face
when I was talking back;
The promises you made to us…
and how they were not kept;
The times you passed out shouting drunk
and all of us then crept
Around the house in frozen fear
as angrily you slept.
If you recall one happy time
that any of us knew
It might relieve the fires of hell
where I’ll be joining you.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
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