I had the most interesting dream.
In it, I was 6 years old at a national spelling bee.
Genius, complex words like 'serendipity', 'duodenum'
'Floccinaucinihilipilification', all spelling them right
Up to the last round.
One word that'll give me victory.
The spell master clears his throat.
"Young man, your word is 'father'"
The crowd began to chatter among themselves.
All upset at the simplicity of this final word.
I look at the master's eyes,
His eyes saying "everything's going to be okay if you do it."
And I realised I dazed off.
"Young man, your word is 'father'."
I stood up straight,
licked my lips,
and began.
"Father, M-O-T-H-E-R, Father"
The spell master looks at me,
looks at his flash card,
And he says, "I'm sorry, but you're incorrect."
Wait, wait; see,
I don't think he understands.
See,
my father is sitting right in the audience.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry, son, you're incorrect"
"Well, you, sir, can save your sorry apologies
Because you must mean 'incorrect' as in within the parameters of being right.
Let me explain something to you.
Obviously,
You ain't grown up where pops were rollin' stones down the hills of women's backsides
And when he comes,
all he left us was alone.
Where menstrual men stroll on bikes and fathers balanced their menstrual.
Two jobs, two kids, and life on a unicycle,
and it looked something like this;
Breastfeeding with one arm,
phone on the shoulder,
cooking with the other arm,
and cleaning with one leg,
and tying sneakers with their teeth.
Young father who make mistakes
because they are not all perfect.
But the one mistake they'd never make
is abandoning their seed.
You see, fathers are master gardeners.
They tend to every leaf,
removing the weeds,
placing us in the window of
o p p o r t u n i t i e s
so we can lean towards the sun.
So we can never forget that the sky is the limit.
Planting kisses on our cheeks,
hugs on our backs,
growing their love on us the best way they know how.
Like my father.
My father lived a deadly nightmare so I can live my dreams,
my father awarded me in blood, sweat and tears,
in hopes that I'd be ripe for the harvest,
and I hope that I'll be as great as a father as SHE was for me.
You did not ask me to spell 'deadbeat', sir,
but if you'd like 'deadbeat',
Here it is;
F-A-T-H-E-R,
D-A-D,
D-A-D-D-Y,
P-O-P,
P-O-P-S if you'd like the slang.
You asked me to spell 'father',
and where I am from,
in my life,
father IS and HAS BEEN,
and ALWAYS will be spelled
M-O-T-H-E-R.
So, open your encyclopedias,
show me your flashcards,
open your dictionaries,
cause what Webster says means nothing around here.
My father is sitting right there, and I love her."