That Sunday started out as usual. I was awakened by the bright early morning sun, peeking through the window of the cube I share with seven other men. Despite the aches that come from sleeping on the thin piece of plastic the prison passes off as a mattress, I felt good.

I performed my daily 10-minute meditation, took care of my hygiene and went to work out. On the way back, I checked my JPay account to see if I had any messages. I was happy to see one from my daughter’s mother. 

“Hey there,” she wrote. “Hope all is well. Can you give Jas a call?”

Jas is my daughter. I knew immediately that someone had died. In my heart, I knew it was my father because my sister had told me the day before that he was in the hospital. So first, I called my sister. My heart was pounding as I waited for her to pick up. She answered on the third ring.

“What’s up, bro?” she said. “He died last night.” 

I went numb. I remembered a similar pain when my mother died on July 9, 2011. At the time, I was in a Level 4 maximum-security prison called Oaks Correctional Facility in Manistee, Mich. The sun was still shining bright as I made my way to the yard to use the phone that evening to call my mother. Unexpectedly, my brother’s fiancée answered, then passed the phone to my brother. 

“What’s up, bro?” I asked.

“She gone!” he said, referring to our mother.

I dropped the phone and fell to the ground in tears.

Now, 12 years later, here was that pain again. The rest of the conversation was a blur. Both of my parents were now gone.

After the call, I lay in my bunk. Me and Pops didn’t always have the best relationship, so I didn’t expect his death to hurt like this. I wanted to cry, but I was too numb. 

I felt terrible that I couldn’t be there for my sister. She also had a rocky relationship with

Pops, but she was a daddy’s girl. I knew she would be more hurt than I was. 

Over the next few days, the condolences came pouring in. I needed to come up with the words to honor Pops. The words finally came to my heart in the darkness of night. I grabbed my tablet and began to write:

Dear Pops,
In my heart I knew this day was coming and as much as I tried to prepare myself, I’m still struggling to accept the fact that you have returned to the essence. If I’m being honest with myself, that’s just me being selfish and wanting more time with my father. Our journey has been arduous, and you didn’t always get being a father right. But, when I needed my father the most you showed up. It was in that moment that my love and respect for you as a man and a father grew. I want to take this time to thank you.

I’m forever grateful for all the jewels you gave me to help me navigate life. Some of your greatest jewels were given to me in the games of one-on-one basketball we played. I remember you couldn’t beat me, but you didn’t let me win either. No losses, just lessons, right?

As much as it hurts right now, I find peace in knowing that you are no longer suffering. Death is the hardest part of life, but it’s not the end. It’s simply a transference of energy. When your energy reconnects with grandma, Gwen, and Momma, tell them I love them. You can rest now but know that you will live forever because you’re in my mind and my heart. I’ll reconnect with you when my journey is up. Until then know that I love you! It’s been real Pops. Rest in Peace King!

My father’s funeral was to be held on the third Saturday in June 17, 2023. My environment doesn’t allow me the proper space to grieve, so I had to find moments in which I could grab some solitude and process my thoughts and feelings in the days leading up to the funeral. I found myself staying up until the wee hours of the night to be alone with my pain. 

It hurt I couldn’t be there on the day my father was sent home. Not being able to see my mother or my father off will be a pain that I will carry until my day comes. During the hours of the service, I decided to spend the time walking on the track in the recreational yard and listening to music. I played Kirk Franklin’s song “I Smile” — my go-to song in painful times like this. 

I hoped Pops knew I loved him. I called my sister, and we talked for a minute before she passed the phone to my daughter, my favorite cousin, my auntie, and my stepmother (my sister’s mom). It was good to hear their voices and know the service went well.

I woke up Sunday morning feeling sad. It was the first Father’s Day I didn’t have my father. 

I got out of my bunk, performed my daily meditation and headed to the shower, where I reflected on my life. I felt the weight of the years of trauma and loss I endured. I relived my mother’s death, my grandmother’s death and my brother’s death. I’ve also lost two aunties, two uncles and many childhood friends while I’ve been locked up. The tears began to flow.

My knees went weak. I put both hands on the wall to brace myself from collapsing. Hidden away in the confines of a prison shower, I released years of pain. After 24 years in prison, I was going to go home soon. But my mother and father would not be there to greet me. 

The hot water felt like it was purifying my soul. After a long time, I turned off the water and dried off to face the usual grimness of prison life.