Creative License 2017

Holding On For More Time
by Diamond Jefferson
I bend down and bury my face
into his muddled man.
Inhaling, my nostrils are filled
with pleasant scents of coconut oil
and a hint of almond.
Dad, the freest man I know, lies
Here resting before me.
My fingers make tangles in his hair.
Long thick strands of rich ebony shroud my
hands;
a light salt of dandruff collects in my
palms.
Face-to-face,
His eyes are like mine,
Sand dunes of cinnamon surround his
pupils,
Black holes that barely peak
Under the horizon of hazed eyelids.
My eyes trail down his face,
And rest at his lips.
Kissing him,
Purple tulips that used to balance
the plastic tip of a Black & Mild cigar,
now cradled my warm, gentle lips.
My right hand stops its busy work on top of
his scalp,
runs down his bulky arms,
and caresses his right hand.
Stained with dirt and tar,
white ash webs
through the cracks of his palms.
“They Workin’ Hands, you wouldn’t
know anything about that.”
He always rants proudly.
Daddy’s touch is like cat kisses
Rough as sandpaper,
But mean no harm.
A slight hesitant smile creeps
Along the wrinkles of my cheeks.
Slowing down to a crawl,
My sight holds on the largest part of his
body;
Round as an overinflated balloon,
Its bottom traced with brown stretch marks
A gut that supported his restless babies
As they were rocked to sleep by the rise and
fall
Of his large stomach.
Clinging on,
My body fights,
But my fingers are pried from his hand,
As hospital halls echo my cries
For more time.
4 CREATIVE