TO MY FATHER
Don’t you think I want to erase
the sounds I used to hear when you
came home at night
You sounded angry, muffled. Work, you said
Then there was the day I saw the front door
swing open wide and I saw the sun.
I was five.
Screams. Yells. Tears. A woman, I learned years
later, said you were her boyfriend.
That you had promised to marry her.
She had come to claim you.
Mom was there.
I did not see you again for a long time.
I remember you called on the telephone.
I asked you when you were coming back.
I don’t remember your answer
Did you think of me?
You flew an airplane, and how I admired
you as, once, you flew over the house,
tipping your wings. Did you tip them to me?
Were you happy?
I used to wonder what you thought about
as you crossed the skies. You never said.
I want to erase the past, but the past is all
I have left of you.
Did you ever think of me?
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