I think
my father was born a giant
but somewhere along the line
he shrunk
to the size of a man.
Once,
like a pea,
he could hold me
in a single hand.
Rough,
and calloused.
They felt like sand.
Warm, and welcoming.
My father’s laugh
like the ocean
would roar and boom
and grow soft.
My father’s roar
like the storm
would rise and fall
with the fall of his hand.
I once was a pea.
I once was a seed.
I grew.
I grew and grew
and grew
until the tears
weren’t quite so ready
and my hands were rough
like sand
paper.
If only I could
smooth
out my life.
Every surface tread
with steady steps.
Every surface
would be even.
My thoughts
I could fit
in a neat, tidy
box.
File them away.
File him
away.
Though I imagine he would
Hate
the tight, muddy space
beneath the ground.
I imagine he would
hate
me more.
For now
the only sounds I hear,
blows I fear
are the ones that won’t fit in the file cabinet.