A Letter to My Father

Dear Dad,  

At first winter blossomed into spring 

Spring blazed into summer 

And summer dimmed into fall 

And by autumn, she was the fault of every misfortune. 

It all commenced with the yelling, and the occasional nudge 

She became the person you loved the most in public 

But the person you loathed the most in private 

She went from baby and wife 

To slut and cunt 

She became worthless, undeserving 

Stupid and useless, a bitch. 

A liar. A waste of your time. 

Soon enough she believed it. 

Her healing bruises, 

In the shape of your fist, covered her pregnant body- 

I always asked her why you did this to her 

Because he loves me, she would say 

I watched you slip into your own shadow 

Disappearing into the hall, time after time. 

I tried to follow, but her nails would pinch my skin. 

Later, as you would drive us to church, 

I would sit, cradling my head in my hands 

And she sat, thanking God for salvation 

But who will save her from the man on her left, 

Who will save her from YOU? 

She spent her night, icing her bruised right hip, 

And all you uttered was 

Because I love you 

But what you don’t see is that if her bruises were a color 

And she could paint all four walls with it 

Some days they'd look like flowers 

Blooming underneath the wretched winter skies 

After the storm has stopped 

Giving time to breathe 

Other days, they'd paint water 

Spilling on the floor 

And with arms her arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling 

Soaking up the mess, 

She'd make a snow angel 

Then, there would be days where all there was 

Is a blank canvas 

For all she could do is stand so still, back pressed so hard against the wall 

And all that could be heard is the noise your fist make 

As they collided with her ribs 

You mistook her body as a punching bag 

Pretending the bruises disappear after you say sorry 

You acted like you were doing her a favor by loving her 

And now she would have to repay you with her body. 

All she was searching for was your nonexistent love 

And maybe I was just searching to save my mother. 

But you, the man who plants his fist into her like funeral flowers- 

What are you searching for? 


This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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