THEY CALLED HIM PAP, FOR SHORT

 

 On the parlor wall—

There my grandfather’s father

Held court from the grave.

It was a ‘time exposure” photograph,

Composing him as he posed.

 

He had piercing eyes.

Before he purchased the farm,

He was employed there—

He was the slaves’ overseer.

More than that, we knew nothing.

 

We were just children.

What did we know about slaves?

Life seemed idyllic;

But we didn’t want to play

In that room, without adults.

 

Quite enough it was

That his soul had burned its gaze

Through time’s windowpane—

That we feared his dominion,

Recoiled from his cruel stillness.