Father

I'm "well-adjusted," they said.

I hate that.

It bends everything that I've achieved and forces it into the context of your absence.

It belittles everything that I am and corners it into your looming shadow.

It breaks me into fragments of you.

Every ten years you gather the courage to contact me,

to ask me if I'm ready to move on,

to let me know you think I'm ready to be your daughter.

The gall.

I grew up lonely and hard and different.

Guilty,

all the while knowing I was a pawn.

Over and over, they asked me how I was doing without you.

I grew claws and sharpened my teeth.

Became "well-adjusted."

Wriggled out from under your silent, empty boot.

Now you beg at the foot of my throne for forgiveness.

I ask:

how have you been, without me?