There’s a bunch of notebooks full of our songs.
My scrubby handwriting and mostly
Daddy’s words.
I leaf through one of the books and find this:
Grease stains on my pocket forever,
Mama tryna get the truth out of me—never.
Liver in the pocket? Nah, son.
Tell my mama that? Be ready to run.
But ain’t nobody cook like you, Mama.
So let me off the hook with this drama, Mama.
Liver in my pocket gotta be
a story for when I’m grown—trust me.
I remember how much fun we had rapping that,
my daddy’s voice strong and me,
I’m singing the backup echo parts,
never and nah, son and Mama
and gotta be and trust me.
And some nights, after my own mom went to bed,
we’d put on some music—old-school groups like
Digable Planets and Arrested Development
and even sometimes
Menudo and Boyz II Men. And we’d drop our lyrics
over theirs.
Ours are way better, I’d tell Dad.
Used to be I could go to my daddy anytime, say
Let’s put down some music.
And he’d stop whatever thing he was doing or turn off
whatever show he was watching,
smile at me and say Yeah, let’s go drop some real beats.
Now mostly I play my guitar alone.
Sing those songs.
And remember how good it felt to make music
together.