Raising Kings & Queens in a Carceral State: Black Fatherhood on Lockdown

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You don’t just do time alone.

You do time as somebody’s son. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s father.


And in a country where Black men are targeted by a system that cages us before we’re crowned, fatherhood becomes a battlefield. It’s not just about being present—it’s about fighting to be allowed to exist in your child’s life.


This isn’t a story about absent dads. This is a story about stolen fatherhood.


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“They Locked Me Up, But I Never Left My Kids”


“My son was three when I got locked up. Every visit, he’d cry when he had to leave. They tell you to ‘do your time and come home,’ but time doesn’t stop for them. They grow up. They get angry. They ask why. And you gotta figure out how to father through concrete and steel.”

— Terrell, 42, did 7 years


The system doesn’t just incarcerate men—it incarcerates families. Visits get denied. Letters get lost. Calls cost dollars per minute. And still, we try. We call. We write. We draw pictures. We teach from the inside.


Because even behind bars, we are still kings raising kings.


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The System Is Designed to Erase Us


You want to talk about generational trauma? Start with a father’s name missing on a birth certificate because he’s in the box. Start with a child watching their dad be frisked before a visit. Start with a parole officer who threatens to revoke your freedom over parenting time.


This system is deliberate. It knows that when a Black father is present, rooted, and empowered—we build legacy. And legacy is power.


So it cuts us off. Labels us “dangerous.” Says our presence is a risk, not a right.


But we’re still here.


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Fathering Through Reentry




“Coming home should’ve been the happiest moment of my life. But I didn’t come home to parades. I came home to a son who barely knew me and a system that made it impossible to make up for lost time. I had to earn back trust from him—and the world.”

— Dante, 34, reentry survivor


Reentry isn’t just about finding housing or work. It’s about reclaiming your place in your family. That means facing shame, healing wounds, rebuilding bridges—and doing it all while the state watches, judges, and interferes.


And for Black men, fatherhood after incarceration becomes an act of revolutionary love.

Because the system expects us to disappear.

But we show up anyway.


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Fathers Behind Bars Still Father


Let’s be clear:

• We read bedtime stories over the phone.

• We teach resilience through letters.

• We send commissary money home when we can.

• We protect, love, and guide—in every way the system says we can’t.


Prison may separate bodies, but it can’t sever bonds.


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Call It What It Is: State-Sanctioned Family Separation


This country has a long, violent history of separating Black families—from the auction block to the courtroom. Today, they call it “child protection,” “sentencing,” “supervision.”


But we see it clearly:

• Fathers stripped of custody because of past charges.

• Men denied visitation because of parole conditions.

• Children used as leverage in court battles.


This is not about safety. It’s about erasure.

And every time we fight to stay in our children’s lives, we’re fighting against a legacy of systemic violence.


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CALL TO ACTION: Support Black Fatherhood, Fight Systemic Separation


1. End Family Policing

Push to dismantle child welfare systems that penalize poverty and past incarceration instead of supporting families.


2. Fund Family Reunification

Advocate for programs that support returning fathers with housing, counseling, and custody advocacy.


3. Stop Criminalizing Parenting

Challenge laws and policies that treat fathers with records as unfit without cause.


4. Tell the Full Story

Share stories of Black fathers who parent through pain, bars, and bureaucracy. We aren’t broken—we’ve been breaking chains.


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Our Kings Deserve Their Fathers


To be a Black father in America is to resist extinction.

To love your child through bars, shame, and struggle is to be a warrior.

And to return home and fight for your family—every single day—is nothing short of divine.


We’re not asking for pity. We’re not asking for praise.

We’re demanding our right to be present, to be powerful, to be fathers.


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Next up: “I Am Not My Charges: Rewriting the Narrative of Redemption.”

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