Dad!

Try to get under my skin, same blood
Our blood’s the same blood, I can’t look into your eyes
Your eyes are my eyes, I try to imagine,
If I had never seen you before, would I think you were ugly?
Your calves are my calves, you’ve lost weight

This is not a metaphor
I’m not looking in the mirror
I’m not that kind of girl

This is a poem about sitting on the couch looking forward and pretending not be annoyed by the smooth jazz station (It’s not real jazz!) next to my father who reads the newspaper and asks me “So what have you been doing this week?” and I tell him nothing much, just visiting my friends, and then I ask him “What have you been doing this week?” and he says he’s been working late, tonight he went to a fundraiser and shook Montel Williams’ hand

“Wow!” I say

Little Sugar Magnolia (I wanted to name her after a song and I tried to think of a timeless band that wouldn’t annoy me ten years down the line so I picked the Grateful Dead but now I’m thinking it’s kinda questionable) scampers around at our feet and I look down at her and she is dying to get on the couch and I pick her up

“God Dammit!” he withers in fake pain, I don’t know why he does it, gets mad and stamps his feet and yells obscenities and rolls his eyes and deeply sighs and tries to make everyone feel little

“It’s only a dog” I smile

“It’s only a cut on my hand!” Wah wah wah wah wah

“When are you leaving?”

I am done with my hot cocoa and I set it down and I feel myself about to cry and I try not to cry I don’t want to cry but I have to cry and I can never cry when I want to so I think I should take advantage of this time and cry so I leave the room and cry

Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah

And now I am crying so that means I have to go through my brain and pick out all the awful memories of my dad and think things about psychology and how my self esteem relies on my dad so I avoid my dad and thank God he moved to Minnesota then to Tennessee and I quit all my sports so my dad doesn’t tell me to follow through or that my feet are too far apart and to choke up on the bat and to only bounce pass and who the hell can make me cry over something as stupid as a cut on his hand which isn’t really a cut but just a pathetic cry for attention from a fifty-two year old man and that doesn’t make me so sad so now it’s time to write about it and I will worry later about whether or not I want a dad

I love to do impressions of myself crying
or giving hand jobs or talking to cute boys on the phone

Dad!

Art:

maryhoulihan.blogspot.com