by David Mills
Dear… Sincerely…
(These epistolary poems are in conversation with actual letters between Tuskegee Airman Cecil Peterson and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, who was instrumental in getting President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to integrate the Tuskegee Airmen into the military.)
I
May 28, 1942
Mr. Cecil Peterson
Recruit Detachment
Air Corps Advanced Flying School
Tuskegee, Alabama
Dear Mr. Peterson:
As I am a board member of the young men’s vocational foundation, Miss Ilma provided your address and name, certain you would appreciate some ink and an occasional joy box from the First Lady. I am keen to know how you are faring at Tuskegee’s Wing School, as I have witnessed it—as well as you a year prior at Quoddy Village, Maine. As I recall, you were, after study-up, in zero temps, conducting tree surgery in a mackinaw off a slag-surfaced road. Enclosed please find hard candies and hard covers: The Moon is Down and The Screwtape Letters. Ink me your interests, and I will be a consistent correspondent.
Wishing you unclipped wings, I am very sincerely yours,
Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt
III
83 Interceptor Control Squadron
Southeast Air Corps Training Center
July 7, 1942
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
The honor of your correspondence and your endless Christmases have encouraged me to be, always, a worthy soldier. I have, three times, since your last letter, had the fortune of a four-leaf-clover. I was adopted by a new squadron, promoted to Airman First Class and given a small group of soldiers. My lips are sealed, (as are your letters before I open them) but my squadrons’ wanderings would impress you. I hope, one day, to be free to tell you about the tall talk of war. And while in the service, I pray to serve G-d, country, and my Uncle Sam. Please tell Mr. President, there’s an airman in Alabama who is a member of his Negro pom-pom squad.
For now, though, I must go. A shortwave radio calls.
Very sincerely yours,
Airman First Class Cecil Peterson
IV
July 16, 1942
Dear Airman First Class Peterson:
My eyes engaged every letter in your letter and I applaud your promotion. Here, finally settled in Hyde Park, after having had so much to and fro between Washington, New York City, and Dutchess County, I cannot say whether summer has even mumbled. While here, I relish the London plane trees and English oak braiding the Val-Kill. Two little girls staying with me like to gallop and splash. (My old horse, Emily Spinach, can’t even canter; grazing, her muzzle elbows the fields near the footbridge.) Thinking of you boys—like everyone—we pinch our Esso octane and Goodyear tires; so, I tend to my errands and itinerary by pedaling my Western Flyer. Rest assured, your hopes will be hand delivered to the President.
With good wishes for your good wings,
Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt
VI
(Cadet Harry Stewart Jr. reading the letters between Eleanor Roosevelt and Cecil Peterson)
Came across these letters between Red Tail Peterson and First
Lady Roosevelt who, in a high-wing two-seater J-Piper,
ascended with Charles Anderson from Kennedy Field,
a grass strip beside Union Springs Highway—in the
devil’s direction—from campus, outside Emery Dormitory
where, because I lacked the earth to study the air, I
took CTDs in equations (quadratic), laws (like Ohm’s)
the world (in-depth) paragraphs (their anatomy) and History I
(Columbus to the Constitution). Anderson was the first Negro
to escort a President’s relations aloft. Heard said, theirs was a ride
of sky-wide smiles. Ms. Roosevelt with a tea rose pinned to her cart-
wheel hat. But on my virgin voyage, I lost my air cherry in a J-Piper
Cub. Knocking me about. Warm air nagged my craft. My stomach a sky
butterflies fluttered in. Monarchs, maybe? (Colonel Parrish once shared how,
in September, monarchs tickle the air at close to 20,000 feet. Instinctive
and risky, they wing it from Canada to Zacapu, he said—and cling to
memories of Joe-Pye weed and thistle, mud-puddling and chrysalis.) In
my soaring tureen it had also been September when my instincts flew
out the window and I lost all notions of exactly where where was.
VII Skies over Tuskegee
(Cadet Harry Stewart Jr. writing an imagined letter to First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.)
September 7, 1943
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
You lucked out with (who we call) Chief. The one, the only, Charles Anderson, flying you around in a Cub. But this must be my toughen up, ‘cause, sobbing in the cockpit, I got “Wash Out” Smith barking: Stewart you’re a baby! Oh, Madam First Lady, I want to bury my head in my trembling hands but angling for the final approach, they are now otherwise occupied. I pray you write back. I’m enclosing six-cent stamps, so you can reply directly to the heavens. Via airmail.
Sinceairily yours,
Private Harry “Stick & Rudderless” Stewart
Poem copyright 2025 by David Mills. All rights reserved.
See more poems from David Mills on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Momentary Arizona,” and “Up Up And… (The Speed Boy interlude).”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt
![in this sea
of questions
that
quested
to understand
me. [struck out]
I am
buried
in an alphabet
of answers,
half-
cocked and still
drunk
from the nights
before.
An ocean of A's
work overtime
trying
to tow
me
from
the wreckage
of
an overactive imagination [struck out] myself.
One should say
the names](https://i0.wp.com/fightandfiddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/04/Mourners-Corner-Pic_Page_2-edited.jpg?resize=800%2C1037&ssl=1)
![of the angels who try
to save
them -
so I say, April [italicized]
Angela [italicized]
Andres [italicized], a season
of tulips erupt
like tiny
insurrectionists
in the grave
of gray
matter, the smoky
haze
aftermath
of
wildfires
decades
away -
let me make
it plain:
every
day
I dream
of cracking
this
body
open
like a melon
against
pave-
ment](https://i0.wp.com/fightandfiddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/04/Mourners-Corner-Pic_Page_3-edited-2.jpg?resize=800%2C1038&ssl=1)
![There.
wiping
his forehead
with a wet
rag,
impotent
Against Death,
heeding
his warning
to throw [italicized]
water [italicized]
on Blackbeard [italicized]
and get out [italicized]
of the way, [italicized]
not knowing
there was nowhere
I could run
to escape
the end of this
story.
Once,
in an audience,
on the heels
of my 53rd
year, a woman
from my hometown
asked:](https://i0.wp.com/fightandfiddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/04/Mourners-Corner-Pic_Page_5-edited-1.jpg?resize=800%2C1035&ssl=1)
![what does it feel like [italicized]
to be an elder? [italicized]
I spun
into a tower
of babel
but should have said:
you [italicized]
tell me. [italicized]
You are still [italicized]
trying to crawl [italicized]
from the carcass [italicized]
of our dead [italicized]
city, [italicized]
back [italicized]
again [italicized]
in the [italicized]
bedroom [italicized]
of your eighth year. [italicized]
I am still
a daughter
kissing the
forehead
of a man no longer here, try-
ing
not to weep
into
his smooth brow.
What the fuck
do I know](https://i0.wp.com/fightandfiddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/04/Mourners-Corner-Pic_Page_6-edited.jpg?resize=800%2C1038&ssl=1)
