I tried writing about you before, but looking at it now.
It was trite.
And cheap.
And sympathy seeking.
Like the very spoiled rotten child I accused you of
accusing me of.
But the truth is- you haven't said much to me about anything- for a long time.
And I just miss our conversations.
And I really do try, sometimes-
but there is this hesitation.
We're different beings but still the same.
You're upset the lady downstairs is being beaten again-
in a panic you call the cops and
mom's head is going to have a baby of worry
if we get involved.
But you don't care. You care about the noises
of the kid beating his mother again.
So you call- and for a moment I'm **** proud.
But you can't articulate your words right on the phone.
You exaggerate out of excitement.
I get frustrated and I grab it from you.
Why do we kids treat our parents so sourly?
These people that we came from,
I never would dare yell at stranger,
or even a friend,
the way I do my dad.
And its not that you deserve better treatment,
because we all have had issues.
You've treated me pretty ****** before.
I've did you as well.
I wonder if there's a way...
we could both have a beer.
But I guess I'll keep wondering,
because I wouldn't be a good Indian daughter, then.
And maybe you wouldn't be a good Indian father, either.
But if we could just be without these conventions
for a day.
an hour.
a moment.
a minute.
a second.
I'd tell you
you're pretty **** cool, dad.