Agoh! Boro haan mogo? I can hear my Father say, in Konkani, to anyone he met on the street. He made friends out of strangers and always walked with dignity and compassion. This poem is for you Dad. On, what would have been your 89th birthday. Keep scoring those centuries. If there are any words higher than stupendous, use them for me.
If I haven’t kept quiet for my flock, feel free to rebuke me.
But have the courage to speak for yourself, if only for your soul. Gather moss, algae, even a mangrove.
Pick up the bundles, old photos and keys, heck even receipts of ancient groceries. My legacy is not in name, rank, or kin it is of another dimension, not black or thick-skinned. for if no one writes about me, I still exist insist on that phrase used by me, whichever it is. Abba, father, daddy, Papai and what have you, I’ll be, see me now, I’m here for all eternity.