To the father of my dreams, and the man who infiltraited my heart without ever knowing it,

I wish you would have stayed longer, but I wrote this for you:

 

Your name was Kelly—like my favorite color.

You called me Goober, and I as silly as my name,

thought of you as a swan,

big, and beautiful, and authoritative.

I was a clover, tucked beneath your wing,

pure and growing.

 

All your stubborness and anger were overlooked

by yours truly.

Because, to me, your beautiful white wings

meant you were an angel.

My angel.

But you had many scars still open.

 

I tried to place Band-Aid's

--made from love

on wounds from war.

But PSTD isn't healed

with Band-Aid's.

 

So, I slid my slender arms around your neck

Embracing in a hug

Because I was trying express

The ache my tongue felt

To be able to call you

"Dad"

 

I wish now that, that day,

all the pink of my tongue

would have spilled into your lap.

Maybe then, you wouldn't've let marriage

slip through your calloused fingertips.

 

Mom would light up again and buzz like a firefly at night

and our family--well what is left,

wouldn't be so robbed of love.

Rainbows would follow us like ribbons in our hair,

and everything would be alright,

 

and your wounds would be healed.

With us though,

not your new family.

Ya know,

I miss you—a lot.

But it's okay, Kelly.

I guess even angels make mistakes.