I called my dad last week,
just to talk,
about life
and that's what we did,
we talked.
About my cousin,
she's pregnant again,
a boy.

About another's wedding.
About work, late hours.
His computer jargon
goes right over my head,
but I pretend it doesn't.

I tell him everything.
Every detail,
my new raise,
I'm rolling in the benjamins,
more like the jacksons.

About going out with friends
on a friday night.
About classes and grades,
his new motorcycle.

We talk and talk and talk.
An hour goes by a
and just as we're about to
say goodbye
he asks a question.

You see, he had a dream,
the kind that reoccurs
night after night after night.
I was molested in the library.
It got to the point where
he could not sleep.
His tone got all serious.
If that ever happen to you,
you'd tell me, right?

We talk all the time.

I moved the phone from my ear
swiping the tears that began to fall,
prayed my voice wouldn't crack,
returned the phone to my ear,
and answered:
of course, daddy.
I lied.