Dear Father,



You had me convinced
that I was simply
the misstep in a
carefully lain plan:

a variable in some
grand, cosmic equation
or just the marriage
of sperm and regret…

to you, I felt like
the sticky, black
afterthought at the edge
of an addiction.

You beat me to a
gangrenous tinge
or until the bruises turned
a sickly, xanthous hue.

You rendered me broken, addled;
our “good times”,
became dusty , old yesteryears
I had read cover-to-cover;

memorized, then forgot them
in one quick, embittered glance.
And now, you’ve vanished, a feather
in a magician‘s cap:

a soluble cryptid
exposed to a single tear.
As always, I guess I’ll
just pretend to be your son,

…and you’ll pretend, in turn, that
I was never born.



Sincerely,

Your mistake.