To be tired of visiting you.
The slow release and crawl of each door forbids escape.
Father I cannot abduct you.
Uncle I cannot purchase your freedom.
The drive is always long.
(Never as long as the years.)
Sometimes there is a glass that divides us.
Sometimes your wrists are tethered to your waist.
Sometimes a corrections officer is petty and will deny me a visit.
Urban men caged in rural places.
Young turned old under
“You can only piss at this time.
And eat this thing.
And walk this way.”
I know that I must prepare you for the undaughter I have become in your absence.
I know that each visit lends you a piece of myself.
And I get pieces of you too.
© 2018 by Miya Upshur Williams