Daddy,
Do I scare you? I am sorry
that I split against a plastic knife
and cheap leather from last Sunday.
Mechanical pencils that scratched shame
into my skin doesn’t peel off
like the etching of DAD
on the dirty underbelly of my school desk
I touched every time I missed you during the day.
Things are different now.
Purgation
is available to me on a
snap
and a light,
and I don’t miss you anymore.
After all, I am my father’s daughter,
there is nothing to mourn.
Does that scare you,
or do I make you proud?
I am your impalpable past
doomed for a cyclical repeat;
ripped, ruptured, flooded –
“my daughter, my name,
you scare me.
Your red blood in its rotund satisfaction
protruding, too much space is taken up
by your tyranny.
Unearth me,
between mouthfuls of your dinner,
tell me you forgive me.”
(Daddy, every man that knows me knows your pain. Happy Father’s Day.)
