Purple Lady Poetry

In his own home
Where his patterns of speech
Did not fit with our clipped English vowels
And his cadence confused the ear,
My father; the foreigner.

In his own home
Where his children despised
The Irishness of him.
Following the ways and inclinations
Of those times.

In his own home
He kept his silence. Saying nothing
Of his place and people.
Nothing we asked and, indeed,
Nothing could be understood.

In his own home
What did he feel of our distance?
What tales had he wished to tell?
And in their telling cease to be
The foreigner.