The Father
The hands of the clocks turn
until there are no hands anymore
The years unfold: work, work, work
the numbers on the paycheck
never match the hurt in his bones,
the money sent home,
The homes built in Pakistan,
abandoned, all the sons of his brothers
came here, to this god-forsaken —
All he wanted, Allah was to serve you
to bring his children up as Muslims
He’s failed.
Their tears don’t move him anymore
He doesn’t fall for their cunning
The child who played so easily
grew up to bring him harm:
daughters dressed like men
men who act like children
and he gets up and works
Without him this American home
would crumble, would fold
He looks away from his grandchildren
they are ticking bombs
He gets up and works, the time goes
the hands of the clocks turn and turn
until there are no hands anymore
Bushra Rehman
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