I wrote about my daughter because I love her. Because I worry about her. Because sometimes being her daddy from inside a prison leaves me with more feelings than I know what to do with.
Now those words are going somewhere I could never have imagined when I put them on paper.
Jen Bowen of MPWW has recognized my poem, “ONE OF NONE,” and it will be shared at the annual MPWW reading. That alone has me excited. To know that something this personal will be heard, that people will get to understand a little of my love for Bray and what fatherhood behind bars feels like, means so much to me.
But then Jen said she plans to give my daughter flowers for my work.
Man. That part gets me.
My baby receiving flowers because her daddy wrote about loving her. Something coming out of this prison that she can actually hold. I keep thinking about that.
There have been so many moments when I wanted to give Bray something and couldn’t. A hug when she needed it. My presence when a phone call wasn’t enough. The reassurance of having her daddy beside her instead of trying to reach him through rules, restrictions, and a recorded line.
So yes, those flowers mean everything to me.
I want her to receive them and know how deeply she is loved. I want her to know that when I had the opportunity to put my heart on a page, her name filled it.
Being an incarcerated father is frustrating in ways I still struggle to explain. You don’t stop being a parent because you’re in prison. You still worry. You still hear something in your child’s voice and carry it back to your bunk. You still want to protect them, guide them, and help them find their way. Then the call ends, and you’re left wondering whether you said enough.
There is also the weight of knowing what your absence has cost. I can celebrate the bond my daughter and I have while admitting that she deserved more time with me. Loving her means being honest about both.
Bray moved to Minnesota to be closer to her daddy. I will never take that lightly. My baby crossed state lines to be near me, and I still have to deal with the frustration of restrictions keeping us apart.
That love, that effort, and that hurt are all in this poem.
So is my pride in her. So is the way she makes me laugh, stresses me out, challenges me, and gives me another reason to keep growing. She is her own person, with her own struggles and her own strength. I want her to know I see her, even from here.
Writing gives me somewhere to put what I carry. Through prison poetry, I can say things that don’t always come out right during a difficult conversation. I can slow down long enough to tell my daughter what I need her to hear.
Jen, thank you for recognizing something so close to my heart. Thank you for helping these words reach beyond prison walls. And thank you for thinking of Bray. The thought of her receiving those flowers is something I will carry with me.
Below is the poem that brought us to this moment.
For my daughter, Bray. My Baby. My twin. My ONE OF NONE.
ONE OF NONE.
My daughter’s name is BRAY and some days, just saying it is enough to turn a cell into sunrise.
BRAY – Four letters, somehow a whole thunderstorm, a whole summer morning, a whole warning label, and a whole miracle inside that name.
She is my Baby – my twin – my ONE OF NONE.
Not one in a million – because millions can be counted. She is the kind of rare that makes heaven check its pockets to see what is missing.
Her glow brightens my day, even when her choices darken my sleep. She is complex – beautifully, painfully, brilliantly, complex – like a song written in five keys – with a heart trying to dance while the world keeps changing the tempo.
And yes, she causes me stress. The kind of stress that doesn’t knock – it moves in, sits at the foot of my bunk, and whispers, - is she okay?
I worry about her – like lungs worry about air. Like oceans worry about moons.
Like a father behind concrete worries about a daughter – who thinks danger is just another streetlight she can walk under.
Danger – is her norm.
Consequence is a language she hears after the fire, after the fall, after the damage has already learned her name.
ADHD mixed with alcohol – MAN, that’s not a drink. That’s gasoline poured into a race car with no brakes...
A storm handed a steering wheel. A spark searching for every dry place inside her life.
And weed – she uses it to quiet the room inside her head, while I’m over here trying to lead from a place built to silence men.
A man. A king. Still a father.
Still trying to guide my daughter through a prison phone with minutes that expire before the pain does.
I have been gone her entire life... Do you know what that means? It means I know my daughters cry better through memory than through my arms.
It means I have loved her through glass, through wires, through rules, through visiting rooms. Where hugs have time limits and goodbye is always waiting like a guard at the door.
When she hurts - I feel it, when she is down it feels like somebody dropped the moon inside my chest and asked me to keep breathing under the weight of the sky.
My Baby is beautiful. Not regular beautiful. Not “pretty girl” beautiful. She is stop the room, soften the hardest man, make a mirror feel unworthy beautiful.
And still – low self-esteem lives in her like a thief with a key. How can she be every mans dream and still not know she is somebody’s answered prayer?
Beautiful and broken. Soft and sharp.
Small in size, yet carrying emotions too heavy for grown men to lift without shaking.
She is petite – but anything but discreet. Impulsive. Not for everybody.
So sweet, yet so vicious. Like honey with teeth. Like a rose that learned how to survive in a war zone. Her mind that ADHD, bi-polar brilliance is not broken.
It is a sky where lightning and sunlight keep arguing over who belongs. Some days her thoughts move like birds all leaving the same tree in different directions. Some days her emotions rise like floodwaters, before she can even name the rain.
And still – she wants to make me proud. She argues with my advice like my words are enemies, then turns around and follows Daddy’s lead like her soul was listening even when her mouth was fighting. That’s my Baby. Defensive on the outside, soft as a prayer underneath. Her Mama is a fighter. Her Daddy is a beast. And BRAY is what happens when survival has a daughter.
She knows me better than people who have stood beside me. She has studied my voice like scripture. She can hear when I’m tired. She can hear me hiding pain. She can hear the father in me even when the world only sees my sentence and my crime.
Our bond has lived through phones and prison visiting rooms, but distance never defeated us. We are two stars. Locked on opposite sides of the sky too far to touch, too connected to disappear.
She moved to Minnesota – just to be closer to her Daddy. Think about that... she left everything she knew to be near a man who has been locked up her whole life. What does that say about me? Maybe it says even buried things can still become roots. Maybe it says a father’s love can travel through concrete and still arrive warm. Maybe it says I must be more than my worst day if my daughter crossed state lines for my light.
But restrictions keep us apart. Policy stands between us with clean hands and a cold heart. How do I explain that to her? How do I tell my baby that I can help men find peace, help men change, help men become better, but I still can’t reach the one girl whose voice can bring me to my knees? How do I explain policy? It feels like building a bridge every morning just to watch someone burn it by noon, then asking my daughter to believe me when I say, “Baby, I’m still coming”.
I disappoint her with circumstances – I didn’t create – but still have to carry. And that is a father’s private hell – to be someone’s safety – from a place I cannot leave.
She tells me she’s proud of me. She tells me she can’t wait till I’m home. She says then life will be complete. She says I’ve always been the missing piece. What do you do with that when you’re a father in a cage? She said I was her first heartbreak – and her first true love.
That line lives in me – like a wound wearing a crown.
I miss her every second of the day.
But not like people miss people. I miss her like a clock misses time – when the hands have been torn off. Like a house misses laughter after the children are gone. She gives me purpose, she gives me pressure, she gives me proof that I cannot fail.
I can do no wrong in her eyes, and that scares me, because I know I have. I know absence has a sound – I know missing birthday’s leaves fingerprints. I know a daughter can smile and still carry questions that cut her quietly.
But BRAY – Baby – hear me. You are not too much; you are not crazy. You are not a problem people should get tired of solving. You are not your diagnosis; you are not your impulses. You are not your worst decision on your loudest night. You are my daughter – my Baby – my twin - my ONE OF NONE.
You are proof – that beauty can be born – from broken timelines. You are proof – that love can grow – without daily touch. You are proof – that even prison could not stop me – from being your Daddy.
And I need the world to know this: my daughter is different, but different is not damaged. Different is divine handwriting. Different is a higher power saying, “I made this one by rhythm not by ruler”.
So, when you see her moving fast,
Understand... Her mind is racing to outrun pain she never deserved.
When you see her defensive,
Understand... soft things build walls – when too many hands come without gentleness.
When you see her stumble,
Understand... some people fall because they are careless, but some fall because they are carrying more than anyone bothered to see.
And I see her – I see the little girl inside the women – I see the fighter inside the fear. I see the glow under the grief. I see the softness under the vicious.
I see my Baby – and until I can hold her, I will hold her in every word. Until I can wipe her tears, I will speak love loud enough to reach whatever room she is crying in. Until I can walk beside her, I will keep becoming a man worthy of the faith she placed in me before she ever got the father she deserved.
BRAY – you are not just my child, you are my compass, my consequence, my redemption with a heartbeat. You are the part of me that never stopped being free, and if I never owned anything else in this world, I have known a love so rare, so raw, so holy, that even prison walls had to step back and admit... they could hold my body, but they could not hold my daughters name out of my mouth.
BRAY – my Baby – my twin – my ONE OF NONE.
The glow that brightens my day, the love story,
I am still living for.
Bray, when you receive those flowers, I hope you feel your daddy’s love in that moment. I wish I could be the one standing there handing them to you.
Until I can, I’m grateful someone is helping me send them.
I love you, Baby.