When I was 3 years old my father was taken from me. He was never given back. A toy I didn't get the chance to experience. A memory locked in a bottle floating at sea. My father. He is still alive. He is having an affair with drugs and sleeps with alcohol. The same people who took my father have now accepted him as one of their own.

I have wanted him back in my life since before the day he left. Listening to the footsteps that echo in ever doorway I pass through. I would do anything to have my father back. So I have begun deconstructing myself. While giving him back every part of me he never had. Building a body for a man with no backbone. A fortress to protect his tattered veins. Something to plead for a path back into my life.

My hands. I will first shake your hand. Giving you the moment to feel the strength I gained from your absence. Then I will dislocate my mechanical joints from the elbow and surrender. Maybe then you will feel the soft parts of my palm. The parts full of love and forgiveness. A path to the right side of the bed. Explore my forearms. The same ones who have build classrooms without you. But I still have a spot on my wall for a our picture. I keep it dusted and shiny.

My shoulders. A sign of cooperation. Using them to cope with the weight of regret in your bear trap chest. Without both of them you are left weak. A team that has carried the weight of the moon on it's nights the sky turns out the light. God and the devil have convinced me of difference edges of the world and met me in the middle. Use these shoulders to pack up and leave your past. Then you will find your present, tucked silently under the crust of earth at your feet.

My legs. I will never walk a day in your shoes sir. For this, I can't grasp the pain you hold upon your bone marrow. But let me lend you mind. They are full of miles. Miles to find a better tomorrow. A way to get off our worries without feeling sorry. Your blood will adjust to my feet. When this happens, our DNA will draw stories all over the map. Give us a chance to take a walk. And walk out of the glass in your captivated steps. Travel back to your family. We are broken statues, arms open patiently paused awaiting you to complete  our family once more.

My spine. I will melt into this earth and pray to my slumped body that you will stand up straight. I promise it worked last time I used it. While you borrow this could you look me in the eye. Just this once. I want to see the empty hotel canvas of a shell you run. You have been begging for vacancy for years. Here is your ticket. In the present. Not a moment behind.

My ribcage. I am keeping. This is my only defense. My body is simply a vessel of your genetics. I will easily give you back what is yours. But these ribs, they held me every night you were not there. Reading me stories of a better you. Myths about a father who loved how children deeply yet did not have the proper body, soul, or mind to do so.

My forgiveness. Dad, take these words. Digest them. Eat them in your meals at night. Watch them carved on your ceiling at first dawn. Feel them crawling through your bones. Then take this body. A offering of forgiveness. Something to give you safe travels back home. I'll be waiting. With the light on and a beer in the fridge.