I wish I could see my dad before 

he was busted up by Britain

before the harsh grey invaded like a as cancer 

Sometimes I conjure him up as a child on his mother’s lap, 

held at a distance,  

this bastard outside child, rejected as soon as he could crawl run

running through the hills of Laventille, my 16 year old dad, 

I imagine his charms as he takes his first love

soon his yellow-palmed, mahogany-black hands

hold his first son on the veranda made for limin’

with upheaval to England, he tried to repeat  the begetting  siring 

5 daughters with two different wives

 one white, one mixed, who could pass

1972, The Harder They Come, and I’m the baby held close

 and my dad is already dying, 

flux and renewal for another 9 years then his wicket fell 

and I wasn’t in the room

to conjure you back.