My TA did a practicum with your sixth-grade civics teacher. What I mean to say is that all this time I’ve watched you, or else had others watch in my stead. You’d be standing at the plate, arms angled, aiming for the bright white ball, determined to hit it past every boundary we could see. Remember your season of Little League games, the ones at Washington Park, just down from the bus stop? I could always spot you, especially at a distance. I grew skilled at enduring the feeling you inspired, a seeping pride that filled my chest, then spilled into a painful ache. Your fat, curled fingers grasping at blocks, trying to build something sturdy and true.
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I took mental notes on the room of children, a rainbow of faces, but my eyes hung on you: your mahogany skin and dark, keen eyes. And faculty, like me, could take guided tours and observe through mirrored one-way glass. So graduate students, like your mother, could enroll their young children while they worked or studied. I assisted with payment for your daycare as well, when you were so small, still in those plush, white Pampers. I noted your weight (7 lb., 7 oz.), your color (dark and florid), your temperament (outwardly placid) like mine.
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Your birth (natural, vaginal) took place at the university’s teaching hospital. You seemed to see me too, my blurred silhouette. I laid eyes on you while your mother rested, along with her husband- that man you must have accepted, at least for a time, as your father. You should know I was there on the day you were born, a reflection behind the nursery glass. You see, I needed a Control Negro, grotesque as that may sound.
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I hope you’ll come to understand, it was all for a grander good. I cannot afford to be sorry, not for any of it. But please do not mistake this letter for some manner of veiled confession. In these typewritten pages, I mean to make manifest the truth, the whole. That I am your father, that you are my son. Still, maybe the truth of it breached your insides:
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Perhaps your mother told you, though she was only privy to my timeworn thesis- never my aim or full intention.
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By the time you read this, you may have figured it out.