Underneath the door

My father was a doctor
who would come home late at night
with a soul so bruised and bleeding
from his unending faithful fight
to keep a hold of kindness
in a world that isn’t kind
to hold out the hope of healing
to his hurting human kind.

Then he’d flee back to his study
to his bookish quiet place
with notes and books and journals
to all in his special space.
And then he’d lock the door from things
that cannot be locked out
and his youngest son would starve for what
he would always do without.

But it was meant to make me who I am
and for all these many years
still the little boy down on his knees
full of hope and full of fear
calling underneath the door:
“This is me, it’s who I am”.
For we love the best by listening
when we try to understand.

Desperate stubby fingers
pushing pictures ‘neath the door
and longing to be listened to
by the man that I adored.
Inside someone who needed me
just as much as I did him
still unable to unlock the door
that stayed closed inside of him.

And it’s strange the way we tend to flee
from what we need the most.
That a father would lock out his son
when his heart would hold him close.
But our wounds are a part of who we are
and there is nothing left to chance
and pain’s the pen that writes the songs
and they call us forth to dance!

© by Michael Card

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