Papi wants to be free and thick,
a side-burned Neil Diamond
in tight polyester and pin-up pink sateen.
So Papi sings on the toilet, a rockstar
caught between the wings of a newspaper,
his half dream mildew in grout.
He holds the air in his hands
like it were a flat-top guitar, legs splayed,
lips pursed, a man waiting for applause.
But it’s only children tittering
behind the door, laughing at their father,
Sergeant Mr. Wanna-be searching
for a piano man's long division
of notes. My father, the tragedy of a song,
the could-have-been-has-been.
Where’s he gonna go
singing like that about living in America .
My Papi’s not New York : no one
of his tribe met at the portal between Ellis and his
island.
Not one wandered from the scarred hull of El Morro,
where great whites waited in the raging below.
His was never Jess Robin’s. No star burned a hole
to his heart. No Red Sea broke him in two.
But he sings ”Song Sung Blue” in his own puppet
rhythm, while in him sounds a clave, a tambor’s
plea,
a bomba careening the cyan hills of Humacao, a blood
sugar cane liturgy coating the grooves of his
fingers,
like the ribs of a guiro. Why can’t he hear
Lloren Torres’s chuscu, chuscu, chu
the hieroglyphic of his uneasy negritude.
Look - it’s Papi Daniel
Romero of Santurce, no lion,
but a lamb, buried in him
his jibaro psalms about a land
