my father has never been my dad
he was too busy making a living for us
that it almost felt like he wasnt living with us

hed work all day long and hed rest up all night
he gave us money and he gives us glances
he even taught me how to cook so i can dependent less

i never knew he loved me
and i thought that was somehow my fault
i was alwas a closed book, an abrupt pause, a halt

but earlier he said something that caught me off gaurd
something so mundane yet sounded so new
he asked me if charles dickens an author i knew

from where im from, i have to scavenge for books of old
id be lucky as hell if i found a book of classics, like austen
and i really have bad luck in finding them often

but here is my father, who i never knew was my dad
holding the tale of two cities like it wasnt a piece of my soul
like it didnt burn him like it did to me, like embers of coal

i was speechless and thankful and flustered all the same
i told him i loved him but it came out as thanks dad
he smiled and nodded as if this book wasnt his affection i never had