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.
B
U
T
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