“I finally made it, Mama.”
Not that you care that I did,
because you always claim that you were behind me from the start
but is that true?
I bet you forgot about all of your druken stuppors that happened
not once in awhile,
but every single night,
and on the bad nights you would yell until your throat was sore,
Claiming that, “you will never make it.
you won’t ever go to college.
you won’t be able to get out of this hell hole.”
I made it.
And for the record,
I’m not mad at you for spending all of our government funds on those bottles of vodka,
I’m not mad that you chose to spend countless hours at that ratty old tavern every night,
I’m not mad that you never came to my games or paid attention to my grades,
I’m mostly sad,
and in the strangest way,
happy with it all.
I wear these scars as battle wounds,
To show that I am proud of where I came from.
I wouldn’t be who I am without the constant trials that I was plauged with,
I wouldn’t be who I am without the requirement of being completely independent by the age of ten.
I’m sad that you never realized what you missed because you were so concerned with finding the bottom of that bottle,
And even now when you’ve lost it all,
Even when you’ve had time to reflect,
You still don’t even see that
you missed it.
You missed out on the key moments of my life.
When I find time to reminisce, I usually find myself alone in those memories,
because you just weren’t there.
I still have some hurt left that I need to redeem, but I do forgive you.
Every last thing that you did to me,
I forgive every single word that you would sling at me.
The unmentionable utters that should have never been muttered,
especially to your own daughter.
I cast that away from me,
From these cities to the slums,
I forgive what you have done.
Not because I am great or mighty,
but because I serve the One who is.
I lift up praises and thanks because He made a way,
and the story that was written did not go to waste.
Mama, I made it.
And I hope that one day,
you can make it too.