At first, you think a thief in the night
has come to take you away.
And though you know that can’t be right,
you pick the truth that suits you.

A bump, a grunt, an earsplitting curse,
all signs that point to heartbreak.
Not thieves at all, but that means it’s worse--
Dad’s coming up to your room.

You throw your blankets over your head.
He makes his way up the stairs,
all sweaty cheeks and feet made of lead,
all cruel thunder and bluster.

You wish that he would pour it all out,
the drink that makes him this way.
You want to kick and you want to shout
and break your turtle figurines,

the ones he buys you every time
he smashes your lamp to pieces
or you make his blood pressure climb
by being small and worthless.

What’s next, more holes punched into the wall?
Or maybe red-faced screaming?
How can your dad love alcohol
more than he ever loved you?

The Svedka never braided his hair
or scratched his back or hugged him.
It didn’t have a father who wasn’t there
even when he was.

Hide under the blankets for now,
little lamb. It’ll all be okay real soon.
This is the last time he’ll come to your room
full of fire and mixed drinks.
You’ll still be afraid and broken inside,
but at least he’ll be broken, too.