My father once said to me,
“good luck, kid”
there was malice
in his voice,
there were tears
in my eyes
and I didn’t understand
why we were fighting,
but this was a dance
I knew the steps to
like I knew my father’s anger
was a poison that had been
seeped into my very bones
even then,
his anger was the most
consistent thing he ever
gave to me,
and a broken part of me
craved it, because at least
then he was paying attention
to me
and my father,
he never knew how to
be a father,
moving an hours long train
ride away and wondering
why I was afraid to stay
with him, this man
that I hardly knew
and only ever saw
when I looked in the
mirror
and I can’t remember
when my father stopped
being my hero,
when I stopped wanting
to be like him,
when protector became tormenter,
but it’s been long enough
to make me fearful
and resentful of this man,
whose face and mannerisms
I so happen to share
and and and
my father once said to me,
“good luck, kid,”
and I almost said back to him,
“I don’t need good luck,
I just need a father”
but I don’t think that’s
true anymore, and if
there’s one thing my father
taught me,
I should never tell a lie