Knock Knock Daniel Beatty As a boy, I shared a game with my father Played it every morning till I was three.

He wo ld knock knock on my door, And I!d "retend to be aslee" till he got right ne#t to the bed. $hen I wo ld get " and % m" into his arms. &'ood morning, Pa"a.( And my Pa"a, he wo ld tell me that he loved me. )e shared a game, Knock knock, *ntil that day when the knock never came, And my +ama takes me on a ride "ast cornfields on this never,ending highway $ill we reach a "lace of high r sty gates. A conf sed little boy, I enter the b ilding carried in my +ama!s arms. Knock knock. )e reach a room of windows and brown faces. Behind one of the windows sits my father. I % m" o t of my +ama!s arms and r n %oyo sly towards my Pa"a!s, -nly to be confronted by this window. I knock knock trying to break thro gh the glass, $rying to get to my father. I knock knock as my +ama " lls me away Before my Pa"a even says a word.

And for years, he has never said a word. And so, ./ years later, I write these words 0or the little boy in me who still awaits his Pa"a!s knock. &Pa"a, come home, 1ca se I miss yo . I miss yo waking me " in the morning and telling me yo love me. Pa"a, come home, 1ca se there!s things I don!t know, And I tho ght maybe yo co ld teach me How to shave, How to dribble a ball, How to talk to a lady, How to walk like a man. Pa"a, come home, 1ca se I decided awhile back I want to be % st like yo , b t I!m forgetting who yo are.( And ./ years later, a little boy cries. And so I write these words and try to heal And try to father myself. And I dream " a father )ho says the words my father did not. &Dear son, I!m sorry I never came home. 0or ever lesson I failed to teach, hear these words2 13have in one direction with strong deliberate strokes $o avoid irritation. Dribble the "age with the brilliance of yo r ball"oint "en. )alk like a 'od, and yo r 'oddess will come to yo . 4o longer will I be there to knock on yo r door, 3o yo m st learn to knock for yo rself.

Knock knock down doors of racism and "overty that I co ld not. Knock knock on doors of o""ort nity 0or the lost brilliance of the black men who crowd these cells. Knock knock with diligence for the sake of yo r children. Knock knock for me. 0or as long as yo are free, $hese "rison gates cannot contain my s"irit. $he best of me still lives in yo . Knock knock with the knowledge that yo are my son, B t yo are not my choices.( 5es, we are o r fathers! sons and da ghters, B t we are not their choices. 0or des"ite their absences, )e are still here, 3till alive, 3till breathing, )ith the "ower to change this world -ne little boy and girl at a time. Knock knock, )ho!s there6 )e are.