Father

I think of you today, Father,
the first to show me that men
could be bottomless pits
into which women cast their love
with nothing returning,
black holes in their souls.
When I was small, I was defined
by my hatred of you,
by standing up to you.
As I grew, I learned to pity you.
And when I think of your ghost now,
that is mostly what I remember —
the tragedy of who you might have been
against the reality of who you were.
I wonder what you were like as a child,
what it did to you to to witness
your own father’s cruelty,
to feel it,
and how that shaped your view
of women. Of yourself.
You could be such a bastard.
But somewhere beneath the
scowling surface
was a boy I wish I’d known
who dreamt of honor
and adventure,
who loved animals, books, and quiet walks.
I imagine he might have been
such an admirable man, if
given the space to make better choices.
Despite circumstances, you did have choices,
and you made bad ones.
I suppose the greatest gift you gave me
was the power to see those bad choices.
You loved me, in your own way, I imagine,
as I imagine I love you, after all.
You never told me, never once gave me a kiss.
That was all part of some petty point
you were making to Mom, some cruel, stupid
game that began before
I was even born. Well, you showed her, right?
The only hints of affection received
were feeble comments here and there
that looked like admiration, if I squinted,
or regret. Sometimes envy.
You sighed once, saying I was too much
like you, referring to my shyness.
I’ve spent ages trying not
to be too much like you.
You never knew my children.
You never saw me divorce a man
rather than endure betrayal and disrespect.
You surrendered to our
mutual foe, Cancer,
before you saw me vanquish it.
Wherever you are, are you proud of me?
I’ll never know.
But the part of me who had to be
her own father, in your stead,
is proud.

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