Bequeathed

I’ve heard complaints: why petty Creator
would sic a father’s penalty upon
the son; penance for the agitator
but never due to parent’s belov’d spawn.

Yet blind to volition is this protest –
choices to make imbibed from choices made;
the son’s own will drawn from father’s compressed.
Elder’s conveyed dictates fledging’s inlaid.

My boy, imperfect I am to the core,
though – praying Justice grips and steers your heart –
you’ll one day see my shadows and abhor
this grime: negation thus to play its part.

Hoping bones pass on not what they condone –
holiness may be yours, despite my own.