a friend asks me as i lean against the bar gnawing on what is left of my thumbnail what my plans are for father’s day
i laugh in the way that is more than a little painful a short bark of mirth and tell her that i will be saving money
i say this too quickly ignoring the lump that has formed in my throat over years of missed birthdays and happy memories ending around the time i realized that my father was no longer my hero
it’s almost too easy to joke about these things i haven’t seen my father in almost three years i got both the ****** tattoos he did when i was angsty and suicidal and 17 covered with prettier pictures
i can laugh about it saying i know my father hates me because he doesn’t deserve anymore of my tears than i have already shed over his lack of love
but it hurts ya know? it hurts like a scraped knee when you’re too old for a wound to be kissed better
and other metaphors i use to cover the fact that there is an ache in my chest a hole i am trying to fill
but i have nothing to fill this hole with because all i know of having a father is what i watched on tv and read in books
and i am still trying to figure out how i am supposed to feel about this man who i see whenever i look in the mirror that didn’t want me as a daughter