You drove an old jeep with the roof off,

Its swinging plastic windows stained with cigarette smoke.

You kept your sunglasses on even in the night;

That captivated me.

As we drove you played your voice; it sang a stream of consciousness

Of your superfluously heroic, grandiose adventures, that I innocently believed.

I chirped out wonder, and begged you to tell them again.

You claimed to be a hit man, a mercenary, an undersea explorer, a high-roller, an all-powerful adventurer and an almost-astronaut.

But somehow never my father.

We drive till sunset, find some old hotel room to crash.

You empty your pockets, knife, sunflower seeds, and a beaten leather wallet.

I color with my crayons as you sort your alcohol.

TV whispering in the background as you open another handle of whiskey, room kept too cold,

I lay beside you in the bed shivering, pulling the thin sheet over my arms to keep it all hidden.

I watch you stumble out for another cigarette, yelling at the hotel manager for not getting your order right.

I watch shows I'm not allowed to at home while I wait for you,

You collapse on the bed beside me, reeking and sweaty in this frigid air.

Sometimes, before you pass out, you slur out a butchered lullaby,

Your arm collapsing me, but I lay there, entranced,

And replay that lullaby long after your drunken snores claw out of your throat.

Those nights were cold and loud and lonely,

But at 7,

It only matters that the crayon Dad and daughter are drawn together.

Until I'd lie home alone, imagining you there, and draw crayon pictures of us together.

I sent them to you in jail, or in the Middle East, or wherever you were at in your Odyssey.

Those drunken escapades sprinkled with gaudy museums, occasionally plane tickets to a little girl's paradise,

They turned into a drunken apology to my tired eyes that'd been up waiting for you to get me,

They turned to a quick visit at a gas station, cocaine on the inside of your nose and a hooker's hickey on your neck,

As you told me you were sorry.

They turned into no calls, no visits at all.

They turned into a birthday card with a foreign postage,

Your name signed crudely by one of your wives.

Those cards turned to blank spaces on my window sill that I left open for you.

There wasn’t a crayon color for that scene.

Now I side-glance at passing topless jeeps, and realize you don’t know I drive.

Never having wanted a daughter at all,

You planted a flickering memory before disappearing.

Left me alone with this blank page.

Little girls give love freely, so I made you up with a blue crayon.

One day, someone will fall in love with me,

These brown eyes you gave me will shine under a white veil

,

As the old women joke about my own daughters to come.

The wedding march will play, and I’ll enter from the back,

Your absence silently aching beside me.

He will take me, have me and keep me,

You will not see me in my white gown.

You won’t pretend to check your watch as a tear slips your cheek,

You’ll have no memory of pink bikes and handlebar streamers.

You will not lean in to hug me, whispering how proud you are of me.

You are only my blue crayon Dad, and I am not yours to give away.