He died.

Such a short sentence, not wordy

Not eloquent,

But what else can I say when someone mentions my dad?

Or asks, "what's your father do?"

Sometimes, I lie,

Just to keep up this fantasy that he's still alive,

But I don't want to bring you down or make you feel weird,

Because when you said, "your parents," 

You didn't realize you were diving into my greatest fear:

That he's dead. 

If you don't talk about something, is it real?

Because maybe if I don't say the D word, he's still somewhat here.

I see him in my smile.

I see him in my music taste.

I see him when nothing in my life is going right, and I'm scared and afraid

that all I've done is waste my time and everybody else's.

But he keeps me going.

He pushes me forward.

And no, this He is not God,

Not some great cosmic force,

But my father, my dead father

Who is godlike himself and comes riding in on his great white horse,

And picks me up when I am burdened with nothing but remorse,

That when he asked I didn't say, "yes, read me another bedtime story.

I know I'm 16, but I'm not too old to be told that you love me, and you just 

want to spend time with me

Because I'm your little girl. 

And I'd give anything in this entire, God-forsaken world, to hear that bedtime story."

I didn't know that sweet 16 was the last birthday he'd see.

That those nights of spinnin' Dylan and Coltrane would soon just be me,

Alone.

Picking up the pieces of my mom.

Trying to keep it together when she lost her job, I lost my virginity, the TV broke,

and everything that could just went wrong.

But I find him.

And I see him.

Because I'm living out a dream that's big enough for two.

And though I'm not sure if I believe in Heaven, if it exists,

He is getting one dope ass view,

of his daughter

Taking the world by storm.

This one's for you, Dad.

Forever yours