The youngest of three from the one you married
The second youngest of five that you claim as your children.
I was two when the divorced happened.
I’ve been told it took two years to finalize but of course that’s a coincidence.
I was five when I went to visit you
You put me in front of the TV, I think jeopardy was on.
I was seven when Ben was born
My mom had to convince your girlfriend at the time not to name him after you.
I was eight when you left and promised to call.
The phone rang once then nothing at all.
I was ten when looking through old photographs
I asked “Mommy who’s this?” as she answered “Honey, that’s your dad.”
I was eleven when my sister went to Florida and got to see you.
I think you called for five seconds to say “hello how are you?”
I was thirteen when you sent a group message on Facebook apologizing for never being there and how beautiful your three daughters are.
I did not reply back.
You don’t know my favorite color, my favorite animal, who my best friend is, where I got that scar from, why I’m afraid of thunderstorms, that I don’t like pork chops, that I like to paint, that my mom says I am nothing like you.
You never met that boy I dated for two years.
You never saw me in a school play, never seen one of my paintings, never attended my graduation.
You may have been there to see my first steps, but you were not there as I stepped across the stage.
You weren’t there when our house got robbed, as my mom cried in the pantry.
You weren’t there when we moved for the 10th time and I started at school number 6.
You weren’t there from years 8 to 18 and before then you are just a vague memory.
I grew up seeing what others “daddies” can be. Seeing this I can say: You are no daddy to me.