The third sunday in June is nothing
more than a Sunday.
I can’t celebrate a relationship that’s fiction.
If there was an anti-father’s day,
I’d have a purpose for “you’re the best” cards.
He’d proudly wear a “world’s worst dad” t-shirt
Stained with beer, vodka, and lies,
As we would miserably celebrate.
We’d tell memories of the lies he proudly sang,
Memories of the jobs he got fired from.
Of the times he drove illegally
And put my brother and me in danger,
Of the hours spent in court and now
Empty vodka bottles are his trophy,
A representation of the many mistakes he’s made.
Red solo cups once filled,
Quickly drained, refilled, and drained again,
Now litter his life.
Cups filled with tobacco shards floating
In a gross muddy liquid.
During the weekends that we were gone,
Tending to our dying great Grandma,
He was occupied with other affairs.
Other women more important
Than our little family.
He taught us whom to trust,
Then proved that I can trust no one.
How to see through any lie
And be paranoid that no one will ever love us.
He taught me that I’ll never be good enough.
If I’m not good enough for him
To be a good father, then how
Could I ever be good enough for anyone at all?