Dear Father,

Dear Father,


I laughed that you were court-martialed,
I could see you being derelict of duty.
Everyone still tailgates at your building
for the boom boom—
and I laughed about that letter sent
to find you for Christmas.

Not because it didn’t matter—
but I could see that too.


I don’t say your name out loud,
not over lunch, not when they ask.
I keep you like a live wire—
something buried, something masked.

It’s easier to stay away
than risk the truth undoing me.


And I hate everyone still—
but I made contact.
There are a handful of people
I can say it to.

But I don’t want questions,
so I disappear instead.
Avoidance feels cleaner
than everything unsaid.


I don’t say your name out loud,
not over lunch, not when they ask.
I keep you like a live wire—
something buried, something masked.

It’s easier to stay away
than risk the truth undoing me.


And there are still the men
who think I hate them—
just because I never mention you
when they ask how’s your family.

I hate that there are no photos.
I hate I wasn’t named.
Not even in your obituary—
like I never came.

But I was there—
at least partially—
at your funeral.


And there are all those times
you rocked the rocking chair—
like something steady
might have been there.

I’m sorry I hated that house.
It was the attic, the laundry room—
places where something lingered
that I couldn’t name.

But now—
everyone likes my dirty laundry paintings.
Even that p.o.s. gallery director.

Maybe that’s ours—
something unfinished,
hung out in the open air.


Maybe I’ll say your name out loud
one spring when I can stand it.
Maybe I’ll stop bracing
for the moment they demand it.

Maybe love can sit beside
all the anger I still keep.



Love you, Jean