seams and stitching ♡ published

FATHER'S SPRING

delicate is not a word
that fits father.
he is not delicate
like the flowers
yawning from the earth in spring are,
he is volatile
like a raging summer storm.
he is father, but he is also
blinding flashes of lightning
and deafening rumbles of thunder
and paralyzing blows of heavy rain. 
father is a man with many smiles.
there are the ones
he pairs with handshakes,
forced and unable to reach his eyes.
his eyes have dulled over the years,
a bland grey tainted with sadness.
no longer the lively blue
mother once knew.
mother once knew father
with pitch black hair
and a penchant for baseball caps.
his cologne was intoxicating,
it had to have been,
to mask the hazy scent of his pain smoking from inside him.
i wish i could have met father
as a boy. wish i could have seen
his eyes the lively blue
that only exists in pictures now.
maybe he loved baseball cards.
maybe he loved to ride his bicycle.
father's past stays caged in his chest
and is a foreign language in his mouth. he cannot tell me about yesterday,
and yet he has no plans for tomorrow.
father's life is a roll of the dice.
feast or famine, sink or swim.
he buys sports cars and trades them in
a few months later.
he bargains over gas prices
and barters over food costs.
he demands a raise, he quits,
he begs for a second chance,
he pushes his luck
and damns God
when things don't go his way.
bless the day
my father asks for forgiveness.
father is not delicate.
father swears after every other word,
his native tongue is profanity,
hostile and argumentative
and stubborn and insensitive
and selfish.
father is so selfish.
he sings me songs
about how he loves me.
he takes off my shoes for me
when i can't move,
the cramps in my stomach
paralyzing me,
he carries me to my bed
when i've fallen asleep on the couch,
he plays along with every stupid game
i've created,
he doesn't understand me
but he doesn't question my decisions.
he asks more than once,
he gives me the benefit of the doubt,
when he cannot afford
a Christmas present
he buys a card from CVS,
he attempts to wrap the presents
he can afford,
i call him to wake up once
and he snaps awake.
our text message conversations
only last about four texts
but they are daily.
he offers what he can.
i know he loves me,
i know he does,
and even though my father is a storm
and he has broken
so many beautiful things
and there are so many mistakes
dimming the blue of his eyes,
i love him too.
so what if he grimaces in our photos.
so what if he takes me to Target
every week when i'm dead tired
or asks the same questions
over and over.
so what he only has visitation rights,
who cares that his house isn't spotless
or that sometimes he gets too worked
up over the small things.
he could have potentially hurt me
in the past, but i have forgiven him.
he has hurt my mother in the past,
and for that i cannot forgive him.
and he hurt himself,
and for that i hope
he can forgive himself.
my father has so much hurt
weighing down on his shoulders.
there is so much anger and ugly
in his bones.
he is not delicate like the spring,
filled with promise of joy and life
and forgiveness.
my father is hurting.
he has been hurt.
he has hurt others.
but this is only because
he does not know how to heal.
forgive my father,
all who he has hurt,
he is hurting.
he does not know how to heal.
sometimes when father is sleeping,
i watch him as he breathes
and his chest rises and falls.
i think of the calm before the storm,
the eye of the hurricane,
the heart beating in his chest.
i think of his clenched fists,
his cruel voice.
i think of his eyes leaking tears
when the image of a wounded animal
comes into the television screen.
i think of his laughter,
the way he drives one-handed
and haphazardly,
all his broken promises
and times he fell short.
i think of all the times
he smiled at me,
or wrapped his arm
around my shoulders,
all the sacrifices
he must have made in his life
that i don't think about enough.
yes, my father is a storm.
but he is the storm and the rainbow. yes, he is the hurt,
but he can also be the heal.
i know this because i am what he is.
i am what he can be.
this man, who i am
painting a picture of
in this poem,
is not a bad man.
my father is not a bad man.
my father is a good man
who had bad things happen to him,
and as a result inflicted
those bad things
onto someone else.
my father is spring.
the true him,
after you've peeled back
all this anger and this ugly
and this hurt,
he is spring.
his eyes are still blue
beneath the layer of somber grey.
he is a good man,
and i wish there was more
he could do to show it.
my father loves me,
despite the way
i've only seen the rotten
and ugly and mistake in him,
and i am so grateful.
he loves me
despite the unforgiving finger
i point at his flaws,
he understands, he does,
that he is beyond redemption.
he rages against this,
because rage is the only thing
he knows, but he understands,
and he accepts.
i want my father to know what
redemption feels like.
he deserves redemption,
i take every negative thing
about him that i've ever said back,
i understand now that he is not evil.
he is not unredeemable.
someone, anyone,
tell me you see it too.
dear father,
forgiveness is a funny thing.
redemption is extending his hand.
go on, take it.
my father is beautiful,
when you peel back the layer of ugly
he has worn for so long.
i don't need someone
to tell me they see it, too.
i know it.
i know it because
when he is sleeping,
snoring peacefully
and drifting in his dreams,
and i ask softly, "dad?"
his eyes snap open,
and he mumbles, "yes, baby?"