As a kid, I found my dad’s gun
rusted and collecting dust behind
his framed diploma, atop a bookshelf,
a summer afternoon spent at his house,
snooping around while he was away at work.
When I asked him about it he said
he was walking home from a party
in the Bronx when two shadows
jumped out of an alley, shoved
a gun in his face and demanded
he empty his pockets. But when
the streetlight’s glow fell on his face
they noticed not the terror in his eyes
but rather his Caribbean curls
in a neat fro, his dark goosebumped skin,
and backed off, said oh, sorry papo.
One of them gave him a pat on the shoulder
before slipping back into the alley.
The next day he bought a gun,
unregistered, illegal, but wore it
everywhere he went just in case,
tucked into the waistline of his pants
even when he was taking classes
at City College and wore a full suit:
blue pants and jacket, white shirt,
red tie, black shoes he shined
every morning, trying to reflect
the success he knew was possible
in this country, and didn’t really think
much of the gun after a while, until
one night, coming home from school
later than usual he found himself alone
in the compartment of an uptown train,
reading the newspaper. At the stop
before his, a band of five guys rushed
into the car, one of them hiding
something under his jacket, holding it
like a pregnant belly. My dad reached for his gun,
let his hand touch the cold metal
as the hand of a police officer
stopped the doors from closing,
stepped onto the train with his partner
and an old, silver haired woman who pointed
at everyone and confirmed with the officers
that yes, they were the ones who stole her purse.
As they put the guys in cuffs, one of the officers
glanced at my dad— who hadn’t moved,
looking guiltier than anyone,
hand still frozen under his jacket,
sweat darkening his collar—
and shook his head as if to say
can you believe these guys? My dad
smiled back and bolted off the train,
thinking about deportation, or worse,
sprinting the few extra blocks home
in the cold, under streetlights casting
their long fingered shadows.