"Black Daddy (a Discourse) Flash Fiction

"...but, I want bacon, daddy," he expresses, at the same time, smoothly moving his hand away from my attempted swat; persistence gleams from his eyes. Said trait, known as my daddy's, which he passed down to his only son; lost by estrangement, constant ass whoopings and brainwashing. My son looks at me--thru me--the same way, with cold, steely defiance. After all, he has tasted bacon, getting lost in reverie over the combination of smell and meaty, yet crunchy goodness. He's definitely a country boy at his roots.

And he's small, like I used to be, how my father is, still; being too slim for even slim fitting denim. I joke with one of his adult cousins, a man ten years my junior, the father of twins; whom has adapted to and adopted a seemingly Zen approach to out-of-home fatherhood. And I applaud him for it, knowing that my make-up will probably never see me be so peaceful....

And the four year old cries silently, tears racing down his smooth and square jawline, escaping from big, light brown eyes. But he looks at me, still, intently. Gone is the bacon, as simultaneously, the aroma wafts the dining room table; we both pause, almost in an unspoken memory of the savory pork. "'Son, you are Brother Malcolm today," and he smiles; the adults laugh, catching it. He's taking a stand that an ass whooping should never have the power to erase. "So, now, son, you have two choices," my hands on his shoulders as he now sits in the parlor, high on the couch's back; he mocks my fingers. I squat low enough so our eyes connect straight on. "Go downstairs and play with the other little people, or grab your bags, so we can leave".

And as perfect as I prayed my son would be, so as not to be exactly like me, he responds through tears still falling, "I want to sit down". Without unlocking eyes, I simply shake my head.

My twin.