The unamed shadows that I’ve glimpsed

I decided to write a little flash fiction. A story no longer than 55 words, for a bit of fun. Here you go:

I remember when I was younger and I’d lie in bed staring at the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. Wide-eyed I’d watch footsteps go past and block out sections of light and I’d wonder who all these people in my house were when I was the only one home.

America is my Daddy

America, old and erected
pierces the skies
over New York.
From his towers
he cries out orders
and sets the standards
for ruling suburbia.
He gives me the dollar
for new toys from China
and stamped on my forehead
is where I’m from
and I’m not his son.
I’m not his favourite,
he turns his back
while I eat cold soup
from a Campbell’s can.
I try to talk to him,
my voice is squashed
under the darkness of Africa.
I reach out to America,
because he has stardom,
golden gods and goddesses
of the silver screen.
I breathe in his smoke
when he grabs his lover’s ass
before he leaves
for his work in the machine.

Daddy don’t leave me,
Daddy listen to me.

He came, he conquered,
he fathered the world.
Master of the house,
his house of whiteness
and discipline and order.
He likes it in missionary,
His missionaries invade
and take gold, diamonds and gods
for his mistress.
He thought I never saw,
distracting me with new toys
and things that sparkle
like Hollywood’s stars.
Those new age storytellers
liars and tricksters, his fools.
My Daddy is cheap,
I heard he steals
and bullies
I heard he doesn’t love me
and he never will.