My Father and I

Share a passion for words

He writes about nature

While I write a mix of stuff

His love for writing

Inspired me to write as well

Love to have a poetic Dad

With such a creative mind

My inspiration & role model

I may have his writin’ DNA

Am so glad to have him as

My Father

#SuperDad

#WritingRocks

#Poeticgene

I have written four children's books

in my lifetime.

But my father doesn't know.

He died in 2006,

I didn't know he was about to go.

He loved me unconditionally,

that I cherish for life.

He said he would walk the aisle with me

when I married my only wife.

He taught me things he knew I would need in age

He taught me how to handle myself when I felt the rage.

I didn't know how important he was until he wasn't there.

I never really had the chance to show him that I cared.

Now that I'm older all I hear is

"Girl, you look just like your dad."

It bothers me a lot at first, but now I'm sorta glad.

So, I love you dad, and miss you,

thanks for letting me rise.

I will make sure I dedicate to you,

my first Nobel Peace Prize.

I used to love Dad, like more than ice cream, or life itself. We'd play and play and play all day.

Then he became a controlling chauvinist, and we did nothing to stop the metamorphosis. My mum was especially powerless to stop a raging egotistical maniac. He was gruelling, having meted harsh discipline to his boys at school. But when you're defined by what you do for a living, it's not easy to transcend.

Granted, we were entirely cocooned in our own insecurities to know better.

One day he came at me with a chair, and I left the house. I didn't run away, but that love that was fast eroding crossed the threshold into hate.

Dad probably never stopped loving me, just like when I was fresh out of the oven. He'd never stop, like I never will with my boy.

Dad remains just another man in my life, although I wished it could be different. But to dredge up the past is to tear open old wounds and I'm not brave enough.

I haven't lived my life following principles that preceded the well-being of my family.

I'll never know why Dad did what he did, but I had an inkling.

I'll never understand what drove him, but I appreciate it could've been worse.

I see him in me at times.

I still cherish the values he instilled.

I use him as a reflection, a compass that points true South that I may always walk the opposite path.

I still love him.

I hope he knows.

Maybe one day, we'll tear down the barbed wires, spend more time watching his grandchildren grow up, on our back verandah, drinking beer, eating peanuts.

It's not too late, right?

dad, you gave me a gift. the gift to walk out of people's lives, never looking back.

if it weren't for you i would've stayed with him, i would've called her back.

my heart would've made its way into their hands, and they would've squeezed, pulped the burden and the joy from my chest until i was no more than a body of broken bones.

i would've been happy, but only for a while. in the end it's passion that kills us.

dad, you saved my life.

I know he did better than his dad

By far

But am I still entitled

To my pain?

He never hit me

Not once

So I guess

He was a pretty good dad

When I called him Daddy

And he called me Sport

He was my hero

I rode with him in his great big truck

Held his hand in the hardware store

Wondering at those big flat pencils

Inhaling the manly scent of lumber

But

Most of my early memories

Of dad

Were of absence or apprehension

"Be good

Be quiet

Dad's almost home"

Dad didn't want the noise

Of children

After long, hard days

Of providing for us

I hid in my room

Afraid of upsetting him

While he hid

In front of the television

Keeping inside as much as I could

Knowing without being told

That if he saw me cry

He'd be disgusted

Because I was too old for that

He never said aloud

He hated sensitivity

But kids always

Know

I tried to please him

When he put me to work

In the heat of a summer afternoon

I wilted in the pounding sun

He could never get too much sun

But I was pouring sweat

And swallowing back vomit

He hated sensitivity

And the contempt on his face

When I had to quit lest I pass out

Made me hate myself

Layer by layer

I hid myself

Swallowed all of the ways

I was not

What he'd wanted

I bit my tongue

When he rattled off coarse jokes

About people of different colours

Or spouted insulting jeers

About homeless people

Or bleeding heart liberals

Or homos

My tongue didn't stay between my teeth

Despite all the times he'd said

"Don't ever _____

Or I'll disown you"

I had to break free

Say what I felt

What I believed

Who I was

I wasn't his Sport anymore

And even after decades

I still agonize between

Honesty and avoiding a fight

Still I wish sometimes

We could just be silent

Ride in his truck to the hardware store

Inhale the potent scent of lumber

And pretend everything's okay

But he never hit me

Or kicked me out

And deep down I know

His bluster and contempt

Were always rooted in fear

I am unafraid

So I guess I will count

My blessings

Challenge: Write about your relationship with your father, whatever it might be.

By: @PRS

1

My father showed up regularly. He loved me then.

2

My father showed up less. He knew the only way he could hurt my mother was by hurting me. She had broken the crimson cushion beneath his breast, and now it was his turn to break mine.

6

I had been awarded student of the month. Excitement poured from my beaming body as I saw my mother, grandmother, and aunt enter the building just moments before the ceremony.

I was showered with hugs, kisses, and gifts. I had been holding onto my mother when I saw him; a man that looked vaguely familiar. I struggled to guess who he was as he approached with flowers in hand. I turned to my mother and asked her, "mommy, is that my dad?"

She forced a smile upon her full lips and said, "yes!"

I smiled brightly and hugged him tightly. It's funny how children love their parents no matter how unfamiliar they are with them.

8

I had been hit by a car on my way from the ice cream truck. I laid in a hospital bed with my mom looking over me. My father had come, but he wasn't actually there. His eyes were on his watch.

"Daddy," I said. "If you have somewhere to be, you can go. It's okay."

And with that, he was gone.

12

I was seeing my father more regularly; he'd show up about three times a year at least. I felt like this could be it; this could be the beginning of him and I forming a beautiful relationship.

14

My father had gotten a divorce and only told me once he had gotten a new girlfriend. He took me on what he called a "family trip." He was acting as if he had been there; as if he had co-parented with my mother for fourteen years and helped raise me.

I decided to talk to him. It was late, and I could not sleep with it on my mind. I climbed down the stairs and went into his room. The conversation didn't go well and ended with me running out in tears. I went into the bathroom instead of into the guest room with the fear that he would come after me to continue the conversation. When he never did came for me, I was, ironically, more hurt.

15

I cried over him from time to time.

I hated him from time to time.

16

I did not think of him much.

17

"Dad, I just want to have a good relationship with you. You know?"

There is a long silence before he says, "well, what's stopping you?" He's smiling. He truly didn't get it, and could I blame him? He never had a father, but is that an excuse? I am not sure. I am just silent.

18

He tells me that he is proud of me; proud that I finished high school. For some reason this makes me smile.

19

I ask for his help. He is better off than my mother, and I wanted to go to college. He tells me he'll try, but he's not sure if he can. I tell him anything will help.

I get a scholarship, but I do not tell him. I want to see if he would help. I want to see what he would do. I tell him the deadline. I tell him that I may be kicked out of the university if I do not pay by this time.

The deadline passes.

He never calls; not to say he couldn't help out, not to see if I was okay.

I decide that I am done.

I will not try. I do not care or maybe I do; I am just to exhusted to even notice.

Remembering my life more than 10 years ago is hard

Its emotional.

My father beat me, my father abused me

He got me addicted to substance, he made me lose taste in certain foods.

He never taught me to defend myself

He never taught me how to love.

At 6 he left.

He was gone, nowhere to be found.

2 years ago my mom ran into him at the store

He gave her his phone number and I saw it.

I wrote it down, put it in my phone, and tried to call.

I clicked the call button, waited a second, and hung up.

I couldnt call him, the one who donated sperm for my existance.

The man who made me feel worthless before anyone else could have the chance.

The man who punched my moms stomach while I was in it.

The man who wanted me gone.

Fathers day 2015 came along, I said fuck it.

We drove to the apartment he lives in.

I knocked on the door.

I heard him lock the door.

He locked the door on his own fucking son.

I wanted to say hi, but after I heard that I gave up.

I got a job at this restaurant, McAlisters.

He worked there but I didnt know he did.

I didnt recognize him, he didnt recognize me.

But then it hit me after a manager asked me about him.

I texted him, I asked why he did this to me.

Why he was such a shit father.

Why he left.

Why he beat me.

Why he got me addicted.

Why he tortured me.

Why he was who he was.

I got one single answer.

"What are you talking about?"

I encountered him at work.

He still didnt know who I was.

I quit my job that day.

"Manny?" I said

"Yeah?" he responded

"Its your son, im your son. Fuck you. Go to Hell."

And like a boss, I walked out.

Havent talked to him since

But I fear one day I might be like him

But nothing could be worse than that piece of shit.

The smell of you-

like pipe tobacco and budget cologne.

Sitting quietly most of the time.

Until-

"Becky,"

(only you can call me that)

"Come here, girl."

I was nine years old.

And, you would-

play me the new song you wrote; tell me a story; postulate, preach, philosophize.

Or, we would sit by the creek, trying to catch a fish.

But, really, just sitting

in silence.

When I was with you- I didn't have to wear shoes;

or, say I believed in things I DO NOT,

or, talk

or, wear dresses

or, pretend that I wasn't smart.

Then- you smelled like alcohol.

You sobbed, ranted, raved-

pacing back and forth

falling on the ground.

I was only twelve years old-

trying to: hide your pistols, cook for you, clean, to be strong, to be an adult.

I wanted to save you,

but I could not.

I have tried to save everyone since then.

I was fourteen when you gave up;

I was on my own.

Now, I don't know what you smell like.

I am thirty-four.

We do not know each other's lives.

We have become triggers to each other-

to memories of a past we both wish we could forget.

Still, sometimes, when I am really sad, I dail your phone.

Through tears I say,

"I love you, Daddy."

You ask what is wrong,

but I NEVER tell you!

It was the coldest,

most golden day.

Frozen hell fire

burning swaying

trees.

My heart turning,

aging,

knowing,

changing,

floating in a glass bowl,

naked,

exposed to the elements.

It was a beautiful day. 

The sun ignited

the leaves

and scattered

the way it would

through glass block.

My dad was ashes,

cold,

heavier than I expected,

in a plastic box

inside of a bag.

My cheeks fiery

in frozen wind,

burnt by autumnal pyres

with the gall

to invade me raw,

scattered,

leaf-like.

Leaving bright specks

across my vision.

Fall came late

and left me brittle,

ready to be a mote

in wind.

Pining for empty,

grey-brown-bended

branches

to break up

blank.

At dusk,

the roads were empty,

leaf strewn,

deaf to

the messy misfires

of my neurons.

I was ugly,

shredded with saws.

My father had his

leg cut off

and couldn't recover.

We are just

meat to be chopped

on the butcher's block,

eventually consumed.

I have learned forgiveness.

At the end, it was me

who had the butcher's knife,

the power to sever,

to coat my apron

in blood,

but I am dressed in white

and I am clean.