Prisoner 6593-4

I don’t have a name I have a number

Will my kids ever call me Dad?

Will I know when they call me?

Do they know I’m not that bad?

When I hear my name, will I remember?

Or will my number shout out loud?

Is it because my skin is darker?

To them, I stand out in a crowd.

The men with sticks they stop to beat me

Because their God is not the same as mine

They say I kill for my religion

But still, I drink the blood of wine

The orange suit in which they dress me

Only hides the bloodied scars

But I prey the next time my children hold me

It won’t be from behind these racist bars.

But one day I will see my children

One day they will call me Dad

They will never see my terror

Or the suffering I have had.