The Legacy

The Legacy
My father’s father made his own house with
sticks and stones. I guess he read the story
of the “Three Little Pigs and The big bad wolf”

He walked miles and miles of impassable roads
to earn his bread in the fields of sugarcane among
snakes and mongooses

He was jealously called: “a self-made man,”
leaving God out of the equation as if he had dropped
from the sky like an escaped meteoroid

He was a man of few words, but his silence was his strength,
his ways of avoiding the depression that comes with been
colonized, with a given name like, Otis Longfellow Stamford
His mixed-race confused him at times—
a son of a slave today, and tomorrow,
a privilege bastard with the tongue of an English man
The side he took made him embittered.
It defined his legacy, one that made him
cynical at times, the next time, rebellious

He was still a slave.
He fought his demons.
He died blind and paralyzed.

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