He’ll pick you up by your armpits and spend you ‘round -n- ‘round

In the school parking lot

It was only cheer practice, but he’s taking you to buy vanilla ice cream, because he’s proud

And he asks you about your day as he pulls the too-hot seat belt across your tiny body

And you trust his hands even though they’re bigger than yours

You trust his hands, because he could probably defeat the monsters underneath your bed

 with a sweep of his palm if you asked him to

and you asked him to

 

In this dream my mother says nothing

And it’s not because she isn’t there

But because she was the only one who was

Because this is a dream and even in my subconscious

 I have no idea what it’s like to have two parents

To have two parents’ voices offering to buy you ice cream

To have four hands willing to buckle your seat belt

Two hands that look like yours

Hands that remind you that your pinky finger is crooked for a reason

To remind you that there’s a history there,

Called ancestry and you’re allowed to be proud,

because it’s yours…

 

In the myth of the present father,

my father is more than a visitor

In this oasis, his name floods across the guest list of all of my public schools

His name tag reads ‘Jeremy’ and although his ‘j’ hooks just like mine,

I prefer to call him Dad

 

He’s exactly ten minutes late for the Donuts for Dad’s parent-teacher conference

He’s wearing calloused fingers the way most dads wear ties,

But he’s got a way about him that’s familiar and safe

And he waves an awkward ‘hello’ to all the teachers

Who just adore his little girl and, ‘did she get her artistic talents from you, because she’s got her wit from her mother?’

And he’s got some of that pride forming in his eyes again,

And all I know is that it’s all because of me

And all I’ll know is that it leads to ice cream

 

In this myth,

Yeah maybe, my last name would begin with a ‘Y’

And I’d be the second to last name on every roll call,

But that’d be okay…

Because he’d be my father

 

Maybe he’d forget my boyfriend’s name

And buy me a laptop

Instead of a car for my sixteenth birthday

But that’d be okay,

Because he’d be my father

 

Maybe he wouldn’t have made it,

To every-single dance rehearsal

Or to every-single science fair

But that’d be okay,

Because every night I’d go home

And he’d be my father…

 

But that’s just the thing,

The thing about the myth of the present father

Is that the only thing

That he actually ever gave me

was…

 

Nothing.