Sentences

My mother kept a chest of letters

my father sent me from prison.

She didn’t let me see them

until I was old enough to read

profanity. Every letter, written

in all caps with blue ink

blotting out every other word.

He signed each letter: Love,

Shy Boogie. That was the name

he claimed he got from the Bronx,

known back then as the Boogie Down,

where he bought the crack

he’d sell back home.

I don’t remember exactly how

many years my father spent inside

and I never bothered him

with such questions. But

I once asked my mother how long

my father was in prison before

he got out on parole. With an attitude

you’d expect from someone

tired of talking about that man,

she snapped, not long enough.