so i said father, father
if i come back home with a diagnosis
instead of a mangled report card
will you look at me less
like i am a mistake?
sometimes i feel like an add math question.
the sort they like to put at the end
of the exam paper.
fifteen marks, out of forty, out of seventy, out
of a hundred, and the teacher taps
twice on the whiteboard with sharp sharp nails
and says:
here are fifteen marks. don't lose them. don't lose them.
but i am not good at math. i
cannot solve myself, don't have
the right formulas never could
make the equations stick in my head
the way your words always did,
father. like gum, like taffy, like
cigarette ashes and smoky anger.
you look at me most days
with calculator eyes
though i know you don't mean
to. are you any closer
to the answer than you were eight years ago,
in the doctor’s office?
have your batteries finally run out?
are you squinting so hard
because you can't see me anymore?
maybe you need new prescription glasses, father
like i need a new skin.