TW: DV

When I was younger I used to try to decipher why my father made me feel like such an outsider, he was his happiest with me as an outlier separated by a barbed wire divider. He'd always say that I'm just a good liar, I say "no, I'm not"  I am my father's least favorite daughter.

It was never a question if his blood flowed through my veins, he knew I was his, but still his disdain for me remained. He struggled to even find the desire to pick out my name. my mother says "during that time he felt a lot of shame and it was easier for him to hand you all the blame" but what baby has the strength to carry a man's shame with their ten tiny fingers and small frame? I wasn't even born yet and I was already losing at his game.

I mourn for the life I could've lived one where I viewed the man who gave me life, as a gift. I mourn for the way I as a child had a perpetually clenched fist. I mourn for the way he forced us to take his teachings like he was a revered pastor, shouting from a pulpit...
I mourn for the little boy he once was and how he couldn't help but tap on things and fidget, and how at nine he didn't know how to tell the teacher in English "I need my lunch ticket."

He couldn't stand how I began to defy and resist, a fire inside me he spent my whole life trying to keep from being lit. He didn't understand how at fourteen I already knew he'd never be a loving enough father for me to want to submit, the way a daughter should want to in a family that's tight knit.

He'd call me stupid and a coward but I realize now it's because he saw the strength and power that cascaded out of me like a gardenia tree blooming with flowers. The dominion he claimed over my life, it wasn't mine- it was "ours"- was immeasurable, reminding me I wasn't free, over and over again for hours.

He treated me like a creature that felt no pain
one that wasn't able to think for herself and didn't have a brain
he viewed me as an enemy that he needed to slay
I used to pray that maybe i'd live long enough to one day make my escape

Fifteen years old with three days worth of clothes shoved into a bag in the middle of a night in August, I fled
From all the horrors of this house and my childhood bed
From all the nights and mornings I was left unfed
From all the times he'd overpower me rather than being my father instead

There was a time when I saw him again
I was having breakfast as vile words were spoken to my mother so "don't talk to her like that" was said
he told me I wasn't brave enough to stand up and before a second thought could pass through my head
I rose to my feet to cross swords with my father, i don't even remember what I was eating, but I think it was toasted bread
I fearlessly looked into the eyes of this man and remembered how many times I had bled
and how even though that blood was scarlet, this time I was seeing bright red
"i'll just call the officials." startled he said
and he trembled as he pulled out his phone, like he had seen someone come back from the dead.

Years have passed and tears have fallen
and floated along in the wind with all the seeds and all the pollen
and planted were those seeds and with my tears were they watered
and I see now that my favorite person will always be
my father's least favorite daughter

How do you sit down and talk to your sister
and tell her that her Daddy has gone?
It's easier explaining the meaning of death
and why people die and draw their last breath.

But Daddy, he's gone to no peaceful heaven.
Instead he's in prison and serving a seven,
so how do you sit down and tell your own sister
the whys and the reasons her Daddy has gone?

"Listen, sis, you'll need to be strong.
Daddy has done something terribly wrong.
He's gone into prison for quite a long time,
and this is what happens when you commit crime."

"Daddy still loves us, he'll phone and he'll write,
ring you to wish you goodnight and sleep tight.
We can sit down together and write him a letter.
It'll make Daddy smile and make him feel better."

I tried telling my sister with emotional tact
the truth of the matter, but you can't hide the fact.
Her Daddy has gone and has gone for a while.
You can't say it with flowers or manage a smile.

So how do you sit down and talk to your sister
and answer her questions why Daddy has gone?
All you can do is just tell him your way
and pray to the Lord he'll be home soon one day.

I don’t get to see you
too often,
but I don’t blame you
for what you did.

You couldn’t stay,
and that’s okay.
You always try
and sometimes lie,
but I won’t hold a grudge-
who am I to judge?

You tell us
you still love us,
and I know that.
So we can chat,
and i’ll sit with you a while
then you’ll feign a smile

But I see how it hurts you
your start anew,
your empty home.
I see your eyes like chrome.
You never stay too long
and your voice doesn’t sound as strong…

It’s hard to pretend,
and even harder to try to mend…
But anyways,
I’ll stop this haze-
I just wanted to say:
Happy Father’s day

I made something-look
but it's no good

You gave the critic first
before I got to them...
Was it a shield,
or would I reach the dreamers field

I heard your message
and it struck

sticks to me  
like sandpapered honey

The bitter truth

Or a perspective
from you

a hot summer night.
the world was a kiln
and we were clay,
hardening, sweating,
baking in it.

I walked by his door
and saw him—
left wide open like an invitation.
he was sleeping.
my father.

curled up in the fetal position,
no blankets,
just underwear.
the room dark
except for the faint
glow of his iphone
lighting the back of his head
like a halo with low battery.
his iPad in front of him,
casting a pale blue wash
across his gut.
he looked like he was
plugged in.
dreams streaming through
a USB cord.

he looked so tired.
vulnerable.
like a deadweight puppet
left on stage
after the curtain’s dropped.

like he wouldn’t survive
whatever was coming next.

like he was still
just a kid
from small-town North Dakota
who wanted to fall in love
and did
but that mother left
years ago—
quiet as a predator
cutting his strings on the way out.  

and now he doesn’t
know how to move
without someone
controlling him.

so he just lies there—
the man
after the werewolf’s gone,
sleeping off the transformation.

breathing hard
in the electric glow
of a humming digital womb.

i dont know why

i even

get my hopes up anymore

He asked me, “What’s your type?”
Why? So you would pretend to be him?
Well, I have no type, but my Father would know.

“Who is your Father?”
The One that fills me with the act of love.
The One that hears my cry and answers.
The King of Kings, the Almighty Allah.

Come, I have asked Him.
My type is that man I would write thousands of poetry for—
Call him my bone and all of my existence,
But he will say, “No, your existence should be God’s presence.”

My type—when I tell him, “I love you from the depth of my heart,”
He would say, “Nah, I can’t take over God’s space, who am I?”
The man that would look in my eyes and will praise God
For blessing him with a vision to see mine.

My type is the kind that moves me closer to God,
To not become one love, but two children
Before their Father’s presence.