“Daughter dear, I will go to church
after six to pray
like your mother used to
for songs and studies on Wednesday.”

“Take care, papa, you must beware
for the searing sun has cooked our peach,
and untimely buses and uphill walks
aren’t good for your gray feet.”

“Don’t worry, daughter, my bones are fine,
Years and years I’ve hiked the path
from cottons, chains, chants and candles,
this is not my last.”  

“Take care, papa, you must beware,
for though times have changed
since Birmingham and Grenada,
a hoodie finds a bullet fast.”

She packed his books neat and clean
and picked his black tie
and bid bye to his weathered grin
and at the table she dined.

The daughter thought her father
was in a Sacred place, a safer time.
Never would she imagine the Massacre—
the nine her schoolmate slaughtered that night.   

For when she heard the guns on nightly news,
her eyes soaked with terror,
She raced through the alleys of Charleston,
Screaming for her father.

She was handed a box by a white coat
and rubbed a warm, wet, red-stained tie.
“Here’s your tie, the shot, and shots of Roof,
oh daddy, where were you?”