Poems by Rose

Permit Forever Denied

 

Papa, you were the blueprint I never asked for,
the first flawed plan beneath my floor.
I learned your walls before I knew
a home could shelter without hurting too.

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You were supposed to show me structure,
how steady hands could raise a roof.
Instead, each room you framed with anger
taught me harm could masquerade as truth.

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You did not need your fists each morning;
your words could splinter beams the same.
You made the hallways hold their breath,
then gave our trembling another name.

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Outside, you kept the porch swept clean,
a welcome light upon your face.
But once the windows closed behind you,
love limped quietly through that place.

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You built back doors for other women,
then called the house a holy thing.
You hid your vows in locked-off rooms,
then blamed the walls when echoes rang.

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You poured the bottle on the beams,
then called the flames our fault.
You stood in ash and mourned the smoke
while we were left to choke.

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And when I loved, I chose the cracks,
the leaning walls, the doors that slammed.
I called it shelter when it shook
because your hands had drawn the plans.

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So when those men came through my door,
I knew the damage they could do.
They were not strangers entering—
they were rooms I recognized from you.

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Then every year near Father’s Day,
or holidays made soft with light,
you filed your plans for reconstruction,
asking me to make it right.

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You asked to build on ruined ground,
to raise new rooms where old ones fell.
I almost signed the plans again,
mistaking your return for repair.

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Then you came for what your sister left—
the papers, payment, family due.
You crossed the distance for inheritance,
but never crossed it back to us.

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My daughter waited at my door,
believing what you said was true.
Then I watched the old foundation crack
beneath a child who trusted you.

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I became the city.

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I read the plans.
I marked each lie you tried to hide.

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No further reconstruction.

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Permit forever denied.