By Kaylord Hill
My son clasps his hands together each night as an admirer; he dons your Halloween mask. Your status has flirted my son away from my heroism. But you have given my fatherhood peace. My son didn’t step through the vineyards of struggle, but that has made his legacy all the more triumphant. His black and white playmates have destinies sewn together in a social fabric unknown to them.
Your poster envelops my son’s room. He walks by and smiles as if he has obtained some secret friendship. Tears begin to sashay down the smooth slopes of my brown history—
and woo me to sleep. I witnessed you define the goal of MLK so when I awoke. . .
My son was the President.