The Acceptance

Dad’s house stands again, four years

after being demolished. I walk in.

He lies in bed, licks his rolling paper,

and when I ask Where have you been?

We buried you, he says I know,

I know. I lean into his smoke, tell him

I went back to Jamaica. I met your brothers,

losing  you made me need them. He says

something I don’t hear. What?  Moving lips,

no sound. I shake my head. He frowns.

Disappears. I wake in the hotel room,

heart drumming. I get up slowly, the floor

is wet. I wade into the bathroom,

my father stands by the sink, all the taps

running. He laughs and takes

my hand, squeezes.

His ring digs into my flesh. I open my eyes.

I’m by a river, a shimmering sheet

of green marble. Red ants crawl up

an oak tree’s flaking bark. My hands

are cold mud. I follow the tall grass

by the riverbank, the song. My Orisha,

Oshun in gold bracelets and earrings, scrubs

her yellow dress in the river. I wave, Hey!

She keeps singing. The dress turns the river

gold and there’s my father surfacing.

He holds a white and green drum. I watch him

climb out of the water, drip toward Oshun.

They embrace. My father beats his drum.

With shining hands, she signs: Welcome.

My father beats his drum.