Dad has no last name.
His father left him and took his
name, courage, and childhood.

Dad cries when he listens to John Lennon,
(father you left me but I never left you)
stays up all night painting the images
he’d otherwise be dreaming,
a starless, moonlit night, and a black cat
at the windowsill of an empty house.

Dad ran away from home
when he was fifteen.
And then when I was seven years old
he packed all our things and put a country of distance
between us and his demons.

He loves us
but in his long silences I wonder
if even we are his family –
if on this soil and in this house he’s
finally found comfort.

That void, too, is an heirloom.