Open Letter to Hank Aaron

Your folded jersey said it

best: Brave. A bounty

on your head, last name a prophet’s,

first a king, you kept swinging

that hammer, Bad Henry, even after

the threats fell like hail.

Every barbershop’s expert

already knew you would best

Ruth’s sacred record, just

like they knew the Babe

was really black, ever

see that nose of his?

The hate mail you quit opening

kept coming, scrawled or sutured,

brushing you back more

than a Hoot Gibson inside pitch,

no return address—

the newspaper with your obit

already written, primed

to run. Still you swung

like a boxer in the late rounds

hoping to change the Judges’

minds—once you connect

& the ball barely sails

over the short porch in left,

you don’t so much run

as pace

around the bases—

nonchalant, nervous—a man

with too much cash

worrying his pockets, a windfall

he may never live

long enough to spend.

Rounding second,

two guys race

up to you, friend

or foe, clapping you

on the back—

I hear they’re doctors now—

as if you’d just been born.

Hopping the fence

like that ball did,

your mama

bear-hugs you

headed home. Think of it

as money,

the Bancard billboard

you cleared in left

field says. Not

that you did—

after, the microphones

aimed at your face

like arrows into a saint,

your face less belief

than relief—

I just thank God,

you say, it’s over with.

Falling back

into the crowd, unharmed,

you wave your blue arms.