I don’t have a name I have a number
Will my kids ever call me Dad?
Will I know when they call me?
Do they know I’m not that bad?
When I hear my name, will I remember?
Or will my number shout out loud?
Is it because my skin is darker?
To them, I stand out in a crowd.
The men with sticks they stop to beat me
Because their God is not the same as mine
They say I kill for my religion
But still, I drink the blood of wine
The orange suit in which they dress me
Only hides the bloodied scars
But I prey the next time my children hold me
It won’t be from behind these racist bars.
But one day I will see my children
One day they will call me Dad
They will never see my terror
Or the suffering I have had.
About the Creator
David Aleman
I am a tired, middle aged man. Artistic and sporty but broken and bruised.
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