The third sunday in June is nothing

more than a Sunday.

I can’t celebrate a relationship that’s fiction.

 

If there was an anti-father’s day,

I’d have a purpose for “you’re the best” cards.

He’d proudly wear a “world’s worst dad” t-shirt

Stained with beer, vodka, and lies,

As we would miserably celebrate.

 

We’d tell memories of the lies he proudly sang,

Memories of the jobs he got fired from.

Of the times he drove illegally

And put my brother and me in danger,

Of the hours spent in court and now

jail.

 

Empty vodka bottles are his trophy,

A representation of the many mistakes he’s made.

Red solo cups once filled,

Quickly drained, refilled, and drained again,

Now litter his life.

Cups filled with tobacco shards floating

In a gross muddy liquid.

 

During the weekends that we were gone,

Tending to our dying great Grandma,

He was occupied with other affairs.

Other women more important

Than our little family.

 

He taught us whom to trust,

Then proved that I can trust no one.

How to see through any lie

And be paranoid that no one will ever love us.

 

He taught me that I’ll never be good enough.

If I’m not good enough for him

To be a good father, then how

Could I ever be good enough for anyone at all?