TW: suicide 

Mama, Dada: 
every baby’s first words 
more than mumbles. 

Mommy, Daddy: 
the naïve child sounding sweet 
to say love and sway pity. 

Mom, D — 
no, not Dad. Never Dad. 
I never reached that stage, 

for you ran to the edge 
and crashed headfirst 
into the silent seats 
when everyone had emptied out 
and you thought our story over. 

I was waiting in the back, ready 
to hug you once more, 
to shake your hand, 
to gaze into your eyes 
as an apprentice to adulthood. 

I was ready to recognize 
your sacrifices and tell you 
I am proud of you: 
a phrase I always wanted 
you to say to me. 

But you saw only Mom and me 
waiting to enter 
stage right for Part Two, 
and that was not enough. 
We didn’t know. 
I wanted to be more to you 
if you had just asked. 

You jumped off 
before I could build my barricades, 
seal the floor, embellish the curtains 
— and while the years have passed 
and this elementary school stage 
has developed into a Broadway theater, 
I still see the bloodstain in the front row 
you left behind. 

When the crowd applauds 
little moments, I can forget, 
but at the end of every day, 
when they file out the swinging doors, 
it stares me down and tells me 
I am not good enough, not complete enough, 
never mature enough to call you Dad. 

Preview from my upcoming 2023 collection The Soul Without a Summer