Daddy’s Girl

Every night, for the last month
daddy has sat at the end of your bed
asking how you are

Princess, he calls.

Your throat tastes like the Zolmitriptan you stopped using in June.

You’re glad your dad left before you could see the Adam in him 
but now you’ve taken up the hobby of studying the cracks in the throats of men 
wondering where all the debris must fall to. They all seem so tired 
when they are with you, 
unravelling their bandages to expose wounds decaying 
with age and experience.

‘Archeologist’ made an appearance on your list of career choices when you were a girl so

the study of broken, ancient things has never left your hands

which, you are told, are as tender as your father was.


how are you? he asks.

Every year since 16 spring comes with migraines that feel like your brain is living through autumn and preparing for the grieving of winter. Your dad died on the 3rd of June, 1994. Every year your body mourns his breath and neither the

tenderness of your hands nor your desire to fix broken things can heal the throbbing

in your head.

He, your father, asks you how you are
and you do not lie.

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