My Father says I only send PR,
press releases, never a letter,
and here I thought he wanted me to
become successful so
I wrote plays and books and operas for
him. I even went to grad schools. 
And didn’t I give four grandchildren?
Once when I was five
he brought home a puppy
in a whiskey carton. He’d
always wanted one, having been the first
child of seven émigré children,
but I was terrified by its
barking and jumping. I thought
I’d done something wrong, and
not knowing  to say that, I stood
screaming at the top of the stairs
until my father packed him up in the box
and took him back to the
liquor store.
My father said he never understood
my plays or poetry. Yet I kept
writing books for him. All
he ever wanted was for me to
ask how are you feeling, Are you well, Do you miss me,
Can we talk, I‘m glad about your new dog.