My father looks noble from a distance.
My father is kind, with an air of stale waters.
My father says I wouldn’t understand.
My father says, but not out loud, that it’s out of love.
My father builds me smaller, and I hand him the shovel.
My father drives me to the edge of the cliff, then he drives back home alone playing his favorite classical music on the radio.
My father says happy birthday on the wrong day, and he smiles ever so graciously handing me money as a gift.
My father’s scent doesn’t feel like home, he smells like the hospital.