Hero
The clouds swallowed the sun,
& cried on dad’s casket.
You couldn’t see the mahogany,
because a flag wrapped it.
Stars and stripes, folded over-
couldn’t explain that sadness.
Troops just said he was a hero,
viewed the body, & past him.
The glory faded with the daylight.
My dad was dead, without a lad.
Everyone wanted me to be proud,
but I was the only one without a dad.
HERO . . I kept hearing, all week.
All my mom did was cry, alone.
I wanted to express myself,
so I figured I’d write a poem.
The poem was called “Hero.”
It was to be about hope, now.
But I could only muster one sentence,
& when mom read it, she broke down.
“I don’t want to be a hero.”
That was the sentence.
I don’t want to be a hero.
I was a kid then, when Vietnam took dad.
It’s hard not to look sad, when I look back-
on writing his name on my book bag,
& pretending he was still there.
Pretending like, a year later, people still cared.
&, today, as an adult, I’m still scared.
Scared of “hero” - the tragic euphemism,
used to alter how we view the system.
My dad died for nothing, now my son’s in Iraq,
& when I see military outside, I crack.
They walk to my front door with a folded flag.
Based on their faces, I know it’s bad.
I melt at the door, knowing the pain had come
They said: “Sir, terrorists have slain your son. . .”
“He’s a hero. . .”
They said it like it would make his death alright. . .
I don’t know if I can crawl out of bed again.
I just wish I could have been the hero, instead of him. .
. .Instead of them.
To my son.
My father.
Senseless death.
Heroes.
A product of Hence Forward
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