My father had one—a soul patch—when he was twenty-one.
Flanked by ingrown hairs & stubble gritty like sand & rough to touch.
I was three & recall when I hugged him his aftershave’s bergamot scent
vivid as color, but you should know I did not see people’s colors
back then. When my father said, all brothas got a patch, I imagined my uncles,
& when my grandmomma said, all white people smell like fish,
I didn’t know she meant my mother and everyone her color. It’s true,
my father’s brothers all had soul patches & even some strangers, too.
They’d greet each other with a solemn nod & could I understand color back then,
I’d know my father thought all men were his brothers only if they were black
& wore their souls as a patch on the chin, like a small & useless mask.