I’ve never met you, but I’ve memorized your face.
Every contour, every curve, every centimeter of skin and shade of stubble
By now I know you better than you know yourself,
And yet I know nothing at all.
I have met you only in old photographs, black and white or the few with a yellow tint to them because they’re so old
In all of them you’re wearing the same half smile with a cigarette
Knees propped up like you’ve got nowhere to be anytime soon.
I know every seam in the navy uniform in grandma’s bureau like they could be the creases on the hands I’ll never get to hold
The hands that I’ve had to imagine finished carving the Thanksgiving turkey
The hands I was told built those lamps in the corner of the picture- there, in the back. If you squint you can see them, you are the reason there was light in that photograph.
I know everything about you from what you left behind
How you walked, your every move
I bet if I thought hard enough I could imagine your voice
Your cough from too many smokes
Your laugh
I can close my eyes and see how you smiled, how you rolled your eyes and how you looked when you were angry, when you were sad
I see that in everyone you’ve met.
That’s how she smiles
And that’s how he rolls his eyes
And that’s why she left
And that’s why dad never closes the garage door all the way
And that’s why she cries sometimes
And that’s why he drinks so much
You are the reason she’s still around
You are the reason he’s so sad all the time
You are the reason I’m so sad all the time,
Because your name is taboo and I have so many questions.
I’ve never met you, but I know you better than you know yourself.
I know how you walk
I know how you talk
And I know how you would apologize if you were here today:
“Cleaning up the blueberry mess of your life, daughter
I’m sorry I was not a better father.”