Love your father, women of the world, for all the attention that is payed to the fatherless, the orphans and the estranged, what little is paid to the fathers who were home.
Love your father because his heart is no stronger than yours, and he has to know that he is doing a good job, has done a good job, women, love your fathers. Love your father in any way you know how, visits, phone calls, emails texts e-cards real cards facebook skype or a whisper to be passed on. Love your fathers.” And then the speech turned into something like this: “why is it weird when I talk to my dad. I want to love him but we are too busy being grown up, checking our reflection in each other’s lenses, I want to love him but we both forget how to break down and pick each other up.
If he cries I’m gone.
Even if I’m still sitting there. I hate when he cries. I want to love my dad but like she said just a few days ago, and I wrote it down under my to do list because it hurt because it was true and I wanted to remember it the way I wanted to remember the face of a dying friend, she said, “he is not at home in his soul.”
And for that, we concluded in tiny voices, I cannot help him.
Love my father, love my father, I want to love my father but he is coated in ativan, he is dulled with lithium and parts of his soul are MIA from all the electric shocking, and I’m not sure I can trust who it is exactly that I’m loving anymore.
I love my father but sometimes he feels like a stranger. Born to teenagers, kicked down stairs, do whatever you want, they said, we’ll just wash your underwear. Go.
I want to love my father but I feel his pain in my veins and I hate him for giving me something that feels shameful, I hate him for giving me anguish and addiction, for swirling universes of wind where there should be something real to touch.
Love my father, okay, I loved sailing across the school parking lot on the skateboard and holding his arms while he held the boom of the sail, and then the “ready, quick!” and we’d turn around and jibe, setting another course across the asphalt. but. I didn’t love the darkness, didn’t love the yelling that tied me into corners, I want to love my father but in all these years I’ve still never quite figured out how.