i am my father’s son
born up out of a grieving mother
that did not want a child
not a baby that needed to be fed
and nursed and changed and loved
she did not know how to be a mother
perhaps she was too young
but even i stopped believing that lie years ago
because even i know
with no intention of having children of my own
(too afraid that i’ll turn out like her)
that a mother’s love should not have an expiration date but more often than not it does

and for my granny
my father’s mother
her love ran out too soon
and he put so many miles and states between them that he has forgotten he even has a mother
and even though i do love my granny
i still hate her for breaking my father in so many ways that he had to smoke and drink out the parts of himself that were too much like her
and even now
with so many states and years between them
that is a kind of hurt that never goes away
and gods sometimes i ask myself why
people have children when they cannot be parents

and maybe that is why she hates me
(the woman that carried me with her
for nine months
and then years after that
who would have gone to the ends of the earth
for me if i had asked her to)
because there is so much of my father in me

i am his son
same hair and glasses and the expressive hands
and the need to be constantly moving
to be heard and seen and to exist
maybe my existence was too loud for her(?)

i have always been his son
even when she did not want me to be
she saw him in my eyes
and i in his
and there was no room for her
because she had left us both years ago
and she resented us for it

because i am not hers
i never have been
with the last name that i am refusing to keep
and the old house-key that i purposely lost
i am my father’s son
and i always will be

(and she resents me for it)
(she hates me for it)
(she tells me it makes me an unloyal son)
(but i am learning not to listen to her anger)

because i am my father’s son
and i always will be