Personality:
A poem about how somethings you do not grow out of.
I am 33
Ohhhh no I am a grown man
& I never stopped writing poetry
about how much
My god damn dad sucks.
Sorry kids sometimes
It’s just the way it is.
Some of us are cool enough
to keep the angst as our
entire personality.
The letter:
Jake ,
I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you. Waiting on moms or grandmas porch until one of the two of them would no longer let me wait. Friday nights, dressed and ready, because you said you were coming. Then Saturday. Then Sunday. The same cycle of hope and disappointment that carved itself into my developing brain until doctors gave it a name: Borderline Personality Disorder. A condition born from abandonment between ages 5-17. A condition you created on your own with every promise broken.
What’s my middle name? My second middle name? When’s my birthday? How old am I? What city do I live in? These aren’t trick questions – they’re the most basic facts about your child that you’ve never bothered to hold onto.
I remember who wasn’t there when I broke bones, hit my first grand-slam, every time I was sick or sad. I remember who didn’t answer calls for days. I remember throwing fits, screaming and crying for you while my mother held me. I remember being used as your detective, held up to ex-girlfriends’ windows to report back who was inside. I remember your siblings giving me presents “from you” – but if they were truly from you, why didn’t you come too?
Don’t forget Todd was always a savage – that’s why he caught you following him and mom and you stood on the bar and told everyone you were a pussy so you didn’t take that loss too” He always was my dad and it wasn’t ever you. And that’s why I called you dad 2 to your face, and there was nothing you could do.
I remember a magistrate threatening my mom with jail if she didn’t get me to you, and I agreed because I didn’t want to hurt her. But at your house, I was always an outcast. I remember going to side jobs with you when I could because your wife was abusing me. I remember crying for you so many times, wrecking my mom’s house because I couldn’t understand: why didn’t you want a relationship with me like you had with your other kids?
You had court-ordered visitation days set -up by you and still didn’t show up. That isn’t my mother’s fault. Whatever my mother did to you should have had no effect on your relationship with me. Yet you’ve spent years trying to blame her, as if I haven’t been an adult making my own choices for the last 14 years.
I smoked weed in high school and you treated me like I was on crack, but when Matthew did the same thing, you had no problem with it. I was diagnosed with ADHD and you said it was “all BS” and my mom was crazy, but when Jacob had the same diagnosis, you accepted it without question.
Remember when I had nowhere to go with your almost 2-year-old grandson? You told me it was “time to stretch my wings and leave the nest.” So at 18, a high school dropout with no license and no help, I gave up my rights to my son. Yet somehow Jason still lives with you and Jessica (with her kids) too? I guess even they trump me and your grandkid.
I’ve watched you effortlessly try for everyone but me. I’ve seen your step-daughter share posts about what an awesome father you are to her. I’ve watched you accept your step-kids with open arms while shutting the door on me. What was wrong with me that made me so unwelcome when everyone else found a place in your life?
You let your wife beat me . You let my step-cousin sexually assault me on Christmas Eve. You bribed me with car rides because you knew I just wanted to spend time with you, then you’d disappear for months.
I didn’t choose you to be my dad, but you chose to have me. If you didn’t want the responsibility, you should have signed your rights away instead of keeping me hanging on, hoping you’d eventually show up consistently. You poked a whole in a condom for all of this?
I don’t want your money. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t even want your apology anymore. What I wanted was a father who showed up, who knew me, who protected me, who made me feel like I mattered as much as your other children.
That ship has sailed. I got to meet and know the parent who was there for me. I don’t have any desire to be around a deadbeat who doesn’t even know what city I live in.
One day you might regret never actually knowing me. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I’m done waiting by the window.
Your oldest son.
Oh yea and dad P.S.
I’d let you go to the worst nursing home in the world before I ever thought to help you.
Oldest son:
A poem about how one transgender man grew up to be the man he wished would have raised him, but own his own.
Meanwhile, I am thirty three,
One would assume it’s about time I get over my chronic case of
Teenage angst.
I am not even sure if I could
Call it that, anymore.
Pick your face up off the floor
Your oldest so became a man
And
You never had to hold my hand
I wasn’t potty training until 9
You never had to lie about my
Age to hide the statutory
Rape
But
I would say that I hate you
add I do
Repeat that pretty frequently
It’s easier than explaining the
Nothingness I feel when it
Comes to you
I won’t let anymore of the
Daughter you never got to knows
Tears fall out of your oldest
sons eyes
They aren’t mine to cry.
In high school I struggled
When the numb feeling would
Overcome me
And everything.
For once I feel nothing, and I don’t
Want to feel anything.
It’s comforting.
Back then
I did not yet discover
My brain had the ick
And it was you that
Made me
S
I
C
K
Say it. Don’t spray it.