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 hold without hurting too.

 

You were supposed to show me structure,

how steady hands could raise a roof.

But every room you built with anger

made cruelty feel like proof.

 

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.

 

Outside, you wore the polished porch,

the helpful husband, warm with grace.

But once the windows closed behind you,

love limped quietly through that place.

 

You built back doors for other women,

then called the house a holy thing.

You left your vows in hidden rooms,

then wondered why the walls would ring.

 

You poured the bottle on the beams,

then called the flames our fault.

You soaked the stairs, the walls, the seams,

then cried about the smoke.

 

You filled the vents with smoke and swore

it never changed the man indoors.

But when the smoke was gone, we knew

the cold lived deeper than before.

 

You burned the home with us inside,

then cried about the smoke.

You stood in ash and played the victim

while we were left to choke.

 

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.

 

You failed me as a father first,

before those men came walking through.

They were not strangers at my door.

They were rooms I recognized from you.

 

Then every year near Father’s Day,

or holidays dressed soft with light,

you submitted plans for reconstruction,

asking me to make it right.

 

You asked to rebuild what you burned,

to raise new rooms on ruined ground.

I almost signed.

I almost let you build again.

 

But you came only for what your sister left,

for papers, payment, family due.

You crossed the miles for inheritance,

but not the street to see us too.

 

My daughter waited at my door,

believing what you said was true.

And when I watched your damage reach

another generation through—

 

I became the city.

I read the plans.

I marked each lie you tried to hide.

No further reconstruction.

 

Permit forever denied.