Oh, father.
how lucky I was to have one,
that's what they told me at least.
the sound of shouting in the den was
my only glimpse of your presence.
the chair that was just Yours,
stood always crooked.
you once left crumbs behind of meals
I spent hours baking.
these nightmares, you spent years making.
broad smile faking.
firm hand shaking.

Oh, father.
I was six years old and you tucked me in.
sang to me of guitars.
and learning how to make them talk.
but where were you
when I learned how to walk?
I ran out of things to hold on to,
when all I needed was your hand.

Oh, father.
I was ten years old and you came to my door.
it was unlocked.
you never knocked.
now Sirens on a Tuesday Night
are just an average thing.
and all that I know now is
the problems that they bring.
ring.
ring.

father.
as you lay under blankets,
like ropes,
with a soft face and a firm voice
I stared into fluorescent lights and prayed.
even though,
you took my faith.
I was twelve years old
and the lines of people waiting to see you
were straighter than the ones
I had carved into my arms.

Oh, father.
I was there when you wasted away
in your hospital bed.
and I wonder of those pale white lights
made me look as dead as you did
when I vomited years of lies
and secret screaming.
and fourteen pills too many.
maybe prayers could've saved me.
but God knows I couldn't try anymore.