bad dads are the ones with drug problems,
the ones who make trips to the liquor store, one or two,
in the afternoon,
three snorts of white powder off the bathroom sink.
bad dads dull your bright red crayola,
and butcher your name past seven.
his recliner is a dear friend, but you're barely a daughter.
bad dads don't hold hands, but hold beers,
for so long their fingers turn into corona-yellow glass,
and stake into your shoulders -
shaking you, screaming,
"where is your mother?"
because he was scared of the color of your eyes.
bad dads don't let you see past their pant leg,
albeit he didn't step on you, he did;
there, there, there - the marks on your face
your droopy eyes and drop-kick nose,
dirty knees and dirty clothes.
he said he wouldn't;
because he fucking knew,
grandpa hurt him just the same,
when his speeding chevy impala was a goddamn history lesson,
he vanished into the horizon and left behind tobacco and pit stains
"real men smoke camels"
real men don't leave their kids.
it was the heat; the lack thereof grandma was so fond of,
and she said she wouldn't; but she did
she loved mistakes so much she raised one.
dad was never a king of hearts,
but these days he looks like louis xiv when he can't meet your eyes,
he looks something cold but his words burn hot like acid to your ears
there's a sick buzz in your stomach that goes to your head -
and you think, maybe, you get it from him.
bad dads - their faces are red, scary, hot to the touch
he's a moving smudge in a photograph,
he's 200 lbs of exhaust fuel,
and you're a gallon of petrol,
sometimes you get so angry your head swells like a balloon,
but don't take the zippo to yourself -
take it to him.
he needs it.
bad dads are the ones who swallow you whole.
but fuck that.
you swallow him first.
