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Poetry

Father, My Mother

the crook of your shoulder, was a magical place. I would lay my head there
the sound of the blood living in your veins,
and your heart playing its strings
would melt the worry lines from my face

when the color of my skin
caused the boys to swear
I would come home to that crook
and feel as light as air

on days with wet weather and fear rumbling in the sky
you would distract me with stories of giants friending flies

when I pleaded for things I hoped would set me free
you would open your wallet, light as air
melt into my pleading brown eyes
and purchase my confidence with bills of green

as I fell and tripped my way through life
you would patch me up, sew each tear
lift me to the ground
carry me when I couldn’t bear

I took everything you could give
then I decided to take more
but dear mother, you were always there
willing to be and do more
because beyond a mother, a father you were

Like this post? Find similar content here: To Call Her ‘Mom’

Comment
by N.K.S.

I am me. My history began in the depths of rural India, but my present is in the height of metropolitan Canada. I am a dichotomy of many things, but one thing is for sure: I am not one thing, and there is no restriction to who I am and who I am becoming. My name is NKS, Navjit Kaur Sidhu. I am proud of my citizenship as a Canadian female of colour, and I am also proud of my birth as a poor female child in India. These two worlds have shaped me, and I try to share my experiences with you here, in hopes my words can resonate with you.

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