Daddy say it low like thunder rollin’ through the kitchen air,
“Girl, that ain’t no man—just wind in britches, nothin’ there.”
I hear him by the sink, water tappin’ like a tired song,
Talkin’ ‘bout a man who always right but always wrong.
“Wind in Britches,” Daddy spit, eyes fixed on the floor,
“Blow in with a promise, then he gone right out the door.
Don’t feed his kids, don’t pay his dues, just drink that check away—
A sorry man is what I call him, every single day.”
Daddy sigh soft, fryin’ cornbread, grease pop-pop-pop,
Says, “He come 'round sweet talkin’ till the money stop.”
I smell that skillet, hear the crackle, feel the heat rise high,
Like truth too hot to swallow, like smoke up in the sky.
Daddy laugh but it ain’t funny, more like gravel in his throat,
“Boy won’t keep a job long enough to keep a steady coat.
No account, no backbone, just driftin’ like the dust—
A man who won’t take care of his own? That ain’t a man you trust.”
And I see him in my memory—leanin’ in the doorway frame,
Smell of liquor on his breath, always someone else to blame.
He’d say, “I’m fixin’ to change,” voice smooth as honeyed air,
But change don’t live in empty words or pockets always bare.
Now Daddy voice get quiet, like church before the choir,
“Wind in Britches never builds, he only builds desire
To run from what he started, leave it crumblin’ where it lay—
That’s a sorry man, baby… nothin’ more to say.”
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by mediha ekici on Unsplash
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