My father never goes to prison.
The Islamic Guard never finds
guns in the house. He can disappear,
he watches the militia walk past
him without noticing, he never spends
even a day behind bars. He does not need
to rely on the kindness of a judge
who recognizes the family name.
He does not need to apply for asylum.
He does not flee to Germany,
does not steal shoes to survive.
He can steal shoes just for the pleasure
of getting away with it, to laugh
in youthful glee at a small crime.
He stays in Iran, where he does not need
to use his invisibility. He chooses the opposite:
his short stories are published
to wide acclaim, he directs
stage productions to standing ovations;
he stars in a movie and people stop
him on the street for photographs.
He never has to learn English, or do
manual labor, or stand for hours
in a kitchen, cooking for ungrateful patrons.
Magic isn’t necessary
to stay alive. His talents can flourish.
Instead of me, he has accountants
and lawyers he pays lavishly to handle
all his affairs. He does not need
to keep track of his passwords;
he has an assistant for that.
He marries someone else, has a different
daughter, maybe even a son,
and they rely on his generational wealth
to have all the grandbabies he desires.
They all live within walking distance.
They see him daily.
He never crosses an ocean.