The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Affidavit by Starr Davis

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AFFIDAVIT I

I CONFIRM         I have never known any fathers. I do not know this one. Our union, like permission when it is not given, or communion when it is not blessed, was the closest I had come to trusting. The man I called father had fathered me from prison. His apostolic letters ministered to a place inside me that was animal, and wild. When you are Black you want to know what kind of slave your ancestors became. Conquerors or complacent. Killers or just killed. He told me nothing, just a few lines to a story, like a page torn out from an old book. Once he was released, no longer my pastor on paper, he gave me his eyes and then a number he never answered. He has never fathered again. We remain in good counsel as good friends, both of us being so experienced at abandonment the common bread we break is stale.

THUS,                      my child knows no father, the way in which my inner child knows no authority, the way in which the petitioner knows no love, the way in which the dead know no place, or a slave knows no name, or these eyes know no stars, or my spirit knows no truth outside the sun or moon being constant and everything else everchanging. And like Ishmael, who had never known his father outside of rose milk and his single mother’s prayer, my child will too, come to know an inheritance that only comes with a fatherless blessing.

I CERTIFY the last text received from the petitioner was in blood. The last child support payment was enough for a glass of wine. The last father I had was a false prophet. I am afraid of a second coming.

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