Dear Dad,
That’s all I ever wanted you to be. A dad, my dad. I didn’t expect you to be a great dad, or even a good dad, but you never made any attempt to be anything close to a dad at all. You did try to be other things to me though. A dictator, a manipulator, even a ****** partner. You may say that I wanted it, you might even actually believe that, but I assure you that my compliance was not an indication of my enjoyment. Compliance was simply the only option you gave me. I saw the way you looked at me long before you ever put your hands on me, but you waited. You waited until you’d pushed me to the brink of insanity. You made me question my reality so much that I’d believe anything you told me. Then on top of that, you found a way to make everyone in our family question every word that I ever uttered in preparation for the day that I’d tell them what you’d done because you knew that eventually, I would. You planned out every piece of what you did so perfectly. Even after I’d come out with the truth you made sure that the walls around me crumbled before yours did. All I ever wanted was for you to be my dad, but you couldn’t even give me that.

Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.

It was a four horse race at
Santa Anita.
I was with my old man and
little brother.
I put everything I had on
the number 3 horse to show.
His name was Dusty's Diaper.
Shoemaker was aboard;
the shoe for God's sake.
It was a sure thing.
All he had to do, was not
come in fourth place.

I learned that day,
in a horse race,
anything can happen.
I was 12 years old.
And like horse racing,
In life, anything can
happen.

Amidst the California evening,
On our way to the car,
I thought my Dad
Would live forever.

where is the support group
for Trans Masc kids
with bad fathers
alcoholic fathers

ones that didn't show up
and still try to tell you
what a man is
and isn't
and by God it isn't you

a Father with misogyny
ran so deep
that my body is
a beautiful woman's
and God made me
to be this way

Born into the beautiful body of a woman

where is the support group
for fathers who are so damaged
dating girls within 5 years of me

i've never felt safe around a man
even the one who is half of me

maybe why i don't feel safe around myself

where is the support group
for Trans kids
that are 27
who always wanted to be like their dad
until they got to know him

who found the masculine beauty
within their best friend
who picked them up
every other weekend

and now
who can't even stomach
to muster
that that is my father.

the guilt
of a kid who just wished one of us
would die

ENOUGH ENOUGH OF IT ALL ALREADY!!!!

can you please stop traumatizing me
its been 20 years
haven't you had enough?
where is all of this material coming from?
is this a never ending bit and i simply just don't get the joke?

You were diagnosed with Leukemia and sadly, you didn't survive.
If you hadn't died 111 months ago, today you would've turned 75.
You were born on October the 18th of 1947.
But 111 months ago, you went to Heaven.
Your hair grew back after chemotherapy made it fall out.
When you were told you would die, there was no doubt.
It must have been terrifying when you learned that you were terminally ill.
You had to battle cancer and it was not easy to go through such an ordeal.
Today would've been your 75th birthday.
But 111 months ago, you were taken away.

my stomach was in knots
as i told you the news
but i didn’t expect was the yelling
the hitting and following bruise
it is yours; I swear
and I am yours too
but you don’t want to see him
don’t care when I am due
i will raise him alone
apple falling far from the tree
show him how to love and be good
show him what a man should be
so that when he grows old
and has a baby on the way
he can be a proper father
he will not run away

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

With my first breath, I become
to wander till the last
to be and be and be some more
time slow at first, soon fast

And with his last draw of this world's breath
an orphan I become
His time well spent I take my place
to hear my distant drum

Dark dying thoughts once swallowed me
like harpies chattering on the wind
But with the truth of death fresh at my door
I greet him as a friend

Together we shall walk and talk
and leaves and stars will fall
I will see the patterns unfold
once hidden revealing all