Dear Financial Aid

Dear Financial Aid…

I sincerely fucking hate you!

Yeah, I said it. I sincerely fucking hate you.

For those of you who don’t know, my relationship with F.A, 

She's my bitter baby mama in the co-parenting relationship that makes it hard for me to see our kid, Degree, and never tells me anything until it’s the last minute while draining my pockets for unnecessary shit.

She puts me on child support as a way for me to prove that I am capable of raising our child for the right intended purposes but she’s paranoid and greedy.

She’s always making me jump through financial hoops like asking for my mom’s tax information (even though I’m grown and pay my own way) just to make sure I ain’t scamming her (as if her trapping me with Degree wasn’t a scam at all). 

Whenever we see each other, we’re always getting into arguments. 

She got me cussing her out throughout the building and over the phone, from A to Z, per sentence, one, two, and three, because she needs $150 for this green energy fee when she don’t even own a recycling bin. 

So bitch, what does this have to do with me and my child, Degree?!

Dear Financial Aid…

You are such an oxymoron.

Emphasis on the moron.

Your name is financial aid, but the only aid I’ve gotten was the band-aid I have had to put on my wallet to stop my pockets from bleeding from the many times you cut me deep.

There were so many times that our kid was starving because your BAPP never came in, or at the most, on time. So I had to fend for us both because you were more focused on how much I made instead of how much you take.

Every time I heard our kid calling for my name, you smothered their cries with one hand with the other wide open because you rather to check my taxes to see if my pockets grossed. 

I thought you were different from the rest after what everyone told me about your Scholar Ships and the access you grant but grant me no passage on your scholarship. 

Got me smoking this joint ready for this four year pregnancy to be over with before I abort this mission with no Planned Parenthood. 

And after everything I’ve done for you and my kid, you dragged me to three jobs, two mental breakdowns and got me jumped by your cousin Sallie-- Mae I get a fucking break!

Sixteen trimesters later, my sweet, child Degree was given to me and the feeling of having custody of Degree felt like the happiest day of my life. 

And even though the thoughts of abandoning them and terminating my progress ran across my mind plenty of times, 

I can feel at ease knowing that I finally can live with my Degree in peace. 

Unfortunately, old habits die hard.

F.A. is knocked up again with our kid named Masters and she’s putting me on child support for Masters too.

• A poem by QuinKillin’