You are a comforter,
a caregiver,
a parent,
a friend,
or you should be.
You are forgiving,
understanding,
compassionate,
and loving,
or you should be.
No, instead,
when she slips and falls
to the cold, hard, pavement
at two years old,
two years old,
and begins to cry,
you tell her crying is for pansies
and stand her up again.
Oh, how fatherly.
You are a punisher,
the keeper of the rod,
the authority,
the peace keeper,
and you do this job well
aside from the fact that the peace maintained
is the result of your violence.
Forgive!
Forget!
Move on!
Live on!
No, instead, when she says her first curse word
at eight years old,
eight years old,
and covers her mouth and apologizes profusely
PROFUSELY…
you call her a filthy mouthed child of Satan,
shake her down screaming,
“YOU NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN!”
only to sit her back down and leave the room
where she sits and cries for two full hours.
You!
You, father, never say that again.
You are a giver of advice,
a wise man,
a role model,
an example.
Or, you should be.
No, instead,
when she breaks up with her boyfriend
(she never loved anyway)
at fifteen years old,
fifteen years old,
and starts dating a boy she does love,
you call her a whore in front of all her friends
and they laugh
and laugh
and laugh.
She cries for six hours,
writes a note
and promptly hangs herself in her closet.
He is a comforter,
a caregiver,
a lover,
a friend,
and he does his job well.
Yes, even in the death of his love,
at her funeral
at fifteen years old,
fifteen years old,
he stands up and walks to your seat
and you call him a pimp.
(Wait a second-
You’re there?)
He promptly chokes you with her suicide note.
You never say that again.
—
There will be only one name on her gravestone.
None of which are
Pansy,
Filthy Mouthed Child of Satan,
or Whore.
There will be only one name on her gravestone.
Do not call her what she is not.