My fatherâ€™s father made his own house with
sticks and stones. I guess he read the story
of the â€œThree Little Pigs and The big bad wolfâ€
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: â€œa self-made man,â€
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 timesâ€”
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.