Kenny Bradley

Custodial Services

every morning
my dad unlocks the school doors and all the children are granted a safe space my dad vacuums the classroom so the lungs keep expanding
my dad mops the floor, a boy will still ignore the wet floor sign and fall that day
my dad runs the polls in the school’s gym (yes, sometimes nepotism is good)
and he helps me cut the line to make sure my voice is trumpeted on this ballot

that day
i witness
my dad add bleach to the swimming pool so everyone learns to beat the stereotypes
my dad wipes the gang symbol off the chalkboard so a boy doesn’t become a chalk
outline on the concrete


my dad remembers all the children’s names, the kindergarten graduation next saturday how the chairs should be arranged so a mother can record their child receiving a
certificate embroidered with a star saying they are growing

my dad banters with all the students, learns their dap ups, talks to them about the recent
basketball game, about back in the day, when people knew who the G.O.A.T was, how he
used to spin records with Busta Rhymes, ran shortstop for the baseball team, and he
becomes their dad too

my dad forgets   to clean all the bottles at home sometimes
my dad forgets       to put the toilet seat down
my dad forgets            to stomach his emotions before he regurgitates a bellow
my dad forgets                the day when the candles are extinguished
my dad forgets                      my name      confuses me for my brothers      and he
remembers
he is their dad too

my dad remembers the definition of tough love
my dad witnesses the knee fully embrace the sidewalk, looks down, as my tears begin
floating up, his beard stubble is napkin

my father is always looking down, trying to mop it all away, so you stay focused on the sky
he takes a step and everywhere the foot lands leaves a patch of dandelions

and one day, near the high school
at ShopRite on Jerusalem Avenue

we hear
“Hey Mr. Bradley!” as a taller man, in a pair of chinos and a maroon sweatshirt,
transforms into a child, two steps over in the pasta section with the gratitude of a senior in
high school over to my father and extended his hand.

“Do you remember me?”
which
he does not
but every student he
has cleaned
after becomes his child

and he says “of course i do son”

my dad tries to wipe the MS out his brain to
remember           all the handshakes
remember                     all the smiles
remember                                 all the graduations from 00 to 24 he assembled

my dad barely remembers a time when the giants were still good
my dad is performing custodial services on his body
my dad is a collection of forgotten services
my dad mops the floor and the ground absorbs his reflection as a gift

i hope u remember

i hope u remember

i hope u remember

---

Kenny Bradley is a poet and graduate student at Rockefeller University, based in New York City, where he travels the boroughs to perform spoken word poetry. He utilizes concepts in both music and biology to influence and shape his poetry to discuss topics ranging in self-love, identity, dissecting trauma, and being a black person in STEM.  He was a finalist for the Luminaire Poetry Award and his work can be found on Button Poetry, Frontier Poetry, Empty House Press and etc. His debut chapbook, “Night Science” was recently released with Garden Party Collective.  To find more of his work, you can find him on instagram @hotchocolate_poetry.