My Dearest Father,

The tired look on his face
Dirt on his hands, face and feet
Weary and beat just to bring home a plate to eat
I could tell he wished for more;

More opportunity
More privilege
More power.

An alien in some eyes,
A criminal in their streets,
A poor man discriminated for what
they perceived and couldn't fathom

If only they knew
If only they knew,

Born on the island of New Caledonia,
Originated from wishing waves of Wallis et Futuna
Submerged into the nitty-gritty streets of Compton California

His upbringing didn't define him. 
beaten as a child, he was.
OG from Park Village, he is.
Poor and worked every day of his life, he did.

Never had any handouts,
Never took a break
Never complained;

I could see the sadness in his eyes,
I could see the tiredness that sulked into his clothes
I could see him compare himself to other dads who provided more material
things that he couldn't.
I could see the insecurity of not having enough hindering him day by day.

Little did he know I saw much more;

I saw my father teach me how to tie my shoes
I saw him brush my hair when no one else would
I saw him wake up early before the sun rises to go to work
I saw him comfort me during times I've disappointed him
I saw him teach me how to drive
I saw him love my mother
I saw him constantly pray
Most importantly I saw his faith in God.

My dearest father,
If I could do- half the job,
You did- in raising my siblings and I,
In the matter of life,
In the matters of death,
In the matters of love,
Or religion, You' be first.
If I could instill,
Half the morals you did.
Then- I will know
I have indeed succeeded.

Love always xx
Your daughter,

Therese-Siulolovao Anges Rinetta Loko


One Reply to “My Dearest Father,”

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