 As a boy, I shared a game with my father. We played it every morning till I was three. He would knock, knock on my door, and I'd pretend to be asleep till he got right next to the bed. Then I would get up and jump into his arms. Good morning, Papa. And my Papa, he would tell me that he loved me. We shared a game, knock, knock, to that day when the knock never came. And my mama takes me on a ride past cornfields on this never-ending highway till we reach a place of high rusty gates, a confused little boy into the building carried in my mama's arms. Knock, knock, reach a room of windows and brown faces. Behind one of the windows sits my father. I jump out of my mama's arms and run towards him. My Papa's only be confronted by this window. I knock, knock, trying to break through the glass, trying to get to my father. I knock, knock, as my mama pulls me away before my Papa even says a word. And for years, he has never said a word. As old years later, I write these words for the little boy in me who still awaits his Papa's knock. Papa, come home, because I miss you. Miss you waking me up in the morning, they're telling me you love me. Papa, come home, because there's things I don't know. And I thought maybe you could teach me how to shave, how to dribble a ball, how to talk to a lady, how to walk like a man. Papa, come home, because I decided I'd walk back and want to be just like you. But I'm forgetting who you are. And years later, a little boy cries. And so I write these words. And I try to heal. And I try to father myself. And I dream up a father who says the words my father did not. Dear son, I'm sorry I never came home. For every lesson I failed to teach here these words. Shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation. Do the page with the brilliance of your ballpoint pen. Walk like a guard and your goddess will come to you. No longer will I be there to knock on your door. You must not to knock for yourself. Knock, knock down rows of racism and poverty that I could not. Knock, knock on rows of opportunity for the lost brilliance of the black men who crowd these cells. Knock, knock with diligence for the sake of your children. Knock, knock for me for as long as you are free. These prison gates cannot contain my spirit. The best of me still lives in you. Knock, knock with the knowledge that you are my son, but you are not my choices. Yes, we are our father's sons and daughters. But we are not their choices. But despite their absences, we are still here. We're still alive, still breathing with the power to change this world. One little boy and girl at a time. Knock, knock who's there? We are.