I catch myself mid-sentence—
that sharp tone,
that dismissive flick of the wrist—
and suddenly it’s not my hand
but his,
not my voice
but the echo of his impatience
rattling in my throat.
Oh, I think,
so this is how ghosts possess people—
not through haunted houses
but through double helixes.
For years, I’ve traced
my worst edges back to him:
See? This rough patch here—
his fingerprints.
This stubborn streak—
his signature.
But the mirror keeps whispering:
At what point
does the borrowed flaw
become yours to keep?
I want to carve him out of me
like a rotten plank
from a ship’s hull,
but biology is a clingy tenant—
even when I scrub,
his mannerisms
leave watermarks on my skin.
The truth is this:
I can blame his DNA
for the first twenty years,
but the next twenty
are on me.
The inheritance has cleared.
The interest is accruing
in my name.
(Still, some nights
I bargain with the moon:
If I unlearn this one thing,
can we pretend
it was never mine to begin with?
The moon, who has watched
generations repeat themselves,
only sighs
and turns away.)
Here’s the terrible math:
every year,
I become less his daughter
and more just like him.
The statute of limitations
on genetic excuses
has expired.
Now when the words slice
before I can stop them,
when I dismiss someone’s pain
with his exact cadence,
there’s no one left to blame
but the woman
who chose to keep
the worst parts
instead of sanding them down.
I stockpile apologies
like firewood,
knowing winter
always comes back.
Knowing some traits
are both heirloom
and burden—
and the will
that bequeathed them
has my name
at the bottom.