DEAR HISTORY

I could tell when my parents stopped believing.

Marcus, Marley, Manley—their gods

deserted them, leaving little

to wring between their hands.

After a time, revolution’s light dims.

Ideals get exchanged for smaller needs,

milk and bread, the crumbs of peace.

In the final days, everyone tried to explain

what had gone wrong: politicians said

tourists would no longer come;

Mummy and Daddy said slavery

was the root; Granny said it was the youth,

killing each other, running wild in the streets.

The night before she and Papa moved to America,

I prayed in the dark of my room

but feared my words

could no longer spiral up to something beyond.

We will come back for you. I promise,

they’d said. When, piece by piece,

my family fled,

we didn’t see the bargain

being struck: to live

in a place where memory

becomes a synonym for home.