Dear Son,
I'm sorry I never came home.
For every lesson I failed to teach, hear these words:
Shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation.
Dribble the page with the brilliance of your ballpoint pen.
Walk like a god and your goddess will come to you.
No longer will I be there to knock on your door, so you must learn to knock for yourself.
Knock knock down doors of racism and poverty that I could not.
Knock knock on doors 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 fathers' sons and daughters, but we are not their choices.
For despite their absences, we are still here, 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.

-Daniel Beatty, "Knock Knock"