It Wasn't Daddy I Promise...

Spoken Word

It wasn't daddy I swear Mrs. Johnson,

who left these... welts on my legs

These.. Bite marks on my arm.

These.. bruises that linger on my body.

"Then who did it you ask?"

Quickly my eight year old mind raced for an answer.

What will she believe.... make her believe.

"These aren't welts. They're rashes....

mommy switched to a new soap.

These bite marks are from my rabbit

Yes they look human. But her two front teeth

are broken... so they look like people teeth.

And these bruises are because I'm clumsy 

and I like to play rough...

Mommy told me I should have stopped."

You stop asking questions and I finally dare to breathe...

Sigh.... breath escapes from my body but my ribs rebel

bruised from repeated kicking last night.

"Never do your homework in pen.... Never EVER!!"

I have learned better than to cry...

It only makes it worse...

I miss a full week of school then I'm back.

The other kids do not try to hide their stares.

Open-mouthed gapes and wide eyes...

at my Small.... battered... Body.

And you miss Johnson jump up from you desk angrily

"Timothy how did you break your arm?

Timothy why is your lip split?

Timothy did your daddy do this?"

Her questions make my head hurt....

Or is that just my concusion....

What do I tell her.... make her believe...

"My arm isn't broken it's fractured....

It got hurt while playing baseball with Mommy...

I ran into the wall and my lip started bleeding...

My daddy didn't do it I swear.... I'm just a clumsy little boy...

That's what Mommy says."

You don't look convinced and I think you've let it go...

Then you say "After class I'm calling home."

I struggle not to scream out "PLEASE DON'T


But I learned to keep my mouth shut 

after what YOU did to grandma when I told her...

The next day I come back to school

and I cannot sit still in my chair...

My bottom is covered in bright red welts.

And YOU! Mrs. Johnson look upset but say nothing.

You do not ask questions

You do not yell.

You do not jump from your desks.

You just stare into my eyes.

After class is over you bend down and whisper to me.

"When I was little my daddy beat me up too...

He turned my lip red... and my eyes black and blue.

I don't want you to have to live with that.

But you have to admit it... Did your daddy do this to you?"

And finally it all bubbles over and I refuse to keep this secret....

From you Mrs. Johnson who only wants to help

so I open my mouth up and say....










"It wasn't Daddy who did this..."

And you start to interrupt.... but I rush on before I lose courage....

"It was Mommy...."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The story of an abused child and his father being wrongly accused


(A serious of dots (...) means you pause for two seconds then continue to read)

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LovingLovelace's picture

I just. Wow. I cannot even.

I just. Wow. I cannot even. This is hauntingly beautiful. I have chills running down my spine.

Wonderfully written and I felt every word. Amazing.


If your mirror doesn't find you one of the most beautiful people it has ever seen, punch it and find a better mirror.

DazedByLife's picture

I'm glad you enjoyed the

I'm glad you enjoyed the read.

Sometimes I just crawk into the darkened and twisted part of my brain and see what I can fish out