His father was racist.
He raised a race conscious son.
He grew into a fine young man,
A gentleman, brought up by a race embracing mother.

He met a woman.
She was a thing of beauty.
Despite his father’s despice for her color,
He adored her brown,
how his fingers got tangled in her curls.
And her round, full lips were delectable,
A door to a whole new world.
He was taken by her,
Totally and utterly engulfed in her.
He’d always thought he knew beauty to have flowy blonde hair,
But his world shifted when this paragon of beauty walked into his life
And made a home in his heart.
No, she didn’t intrude.
He gave her the only key to his heart.

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He took her home.
His father was livid.
A few days passed, he watched her.
Slowly, he started seeing just what his son had fallen in love with.
Her grace was poignant.
Her smile, warm and inviting,
Her laughter, light and bright.
His son had found solace in her.

She grew on him.
She was smart yet humble.
They shared a love for literature, they could talk for hours on end.
The old man’s heart started to waver.
She was black.
She was black, he reminded himself.

He woke up one morning and said to his wife,
“Martha, I know she is black but having spent time with her, I am convinced she is a misprint.”

 

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4 thoughts on “Misprint

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