A short, unfinished piece started by me remembering my father saying “you’re not my son, so don’t act like one”.
Our sons, our brothers
Placed on a pedal stool before they could sit
Already perfect and complete.
Not allowed to falter
And failures considered growth.
Safe to go, wear, love as they see fit.
The world opened to them,
Open for the taking – they can take it.
So they take and they take.
Our fathers and uncles,
Telling us all of their burden.
The men who upped.
Yet how they forget
The backs that cracked
And the bellies that split in two
To give them the world.
being woke 