On a Father's 'Love'

he's not absent.

he's still there, i know it.

maybe, it feels like it because he only calls every few weeks.

maybe, it feels like it because his visits have dwindled down to maybe five a year.

maybe, it feels like it because he is never there.

but still, he isn't absent.

i don't know what hurts more,

him not being there at all,

or only being there when convenient.

if his backtalk to strangers who share a last name with us,

or his fake praise when he tries to look good in front of friends,

is a blessing or a curse in disguise.

he doesn't know me,

and I've tried to convince myself that it's okay.

that i have others, that my mother and my grandfather and everyone else will keep me alive.

yet, somehow, seeing him be a father to another little girl,

with the same birthday and the same eyes and the same passions,

eats me alive.

it hurts when he messes up and calls me by her name,

or has to compare her to me every time i tell him about something great.

how he knows everything about her,

but he can't even remember my middle name.

my father isn't absent,

no, he's there every time.

but sometimes, in the dead of night,

with only me, a pen, and a journal in mind,

i wish he would've left me behind.

- R.K.