Purple

^{For Akua}

Walking, I drew my hand over the lumpy
bloom of a spray of purple; I stripped away
my fingers, stained purple; put it to my nose,

the minty honey, a perfume so aggressively
pleasant—I gave it to you to smell,
my daughter, and you pulled away as if

I was giving you a palm full of wasps,
deceptions: “Smell the way the air
changes because of purple and green.”

This is the promise I make to you:
I will never give you a fist full of wasps,
just the surprise of purple and the scent of rain.

Reproduced from Nebraska: Poems by Kwame Dawes by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 2019 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska.

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In his letter addressed to students during his participation in the Dear Poet 2022 program, Kwame Dawes wrote, “The poem is based on an actual incident with my daughter, Akua. Akua is the youngest of my three children. She is an adult now and a brilliant lawyer. The incident happened when she was at university, and we had gone for a walk through some public gardens. I saw the lavender shrub and was drawn to it. I rubbed the leaves and put my fingers to my nose, expecting that sweet, minty scent that filled me. I wanted her to experience the same, so I reached for her, and she pulled away. I think she thought I was playing a practical joke on her. It was a natural reaction, but it also taught us something about trust. The poem found its way to the vow at the end of the poem which alludes to Matthew 7:9-11, the Biblical account in which fatherhood is defined as a relationship in which a father would not give a child a snake when he has been asked for a fish.”