He could’ve been Big Randy.
He came up from Big Sandy,
He took us for a swim there once or twice.
He would come visit when he was itching
and he said only mama could scratch.
Attached to his hand he always had a present for me.
Sometimes the dolls were a little worn around the edges,
I’d guess they were leftovers.
Another option was Little Steve.
He was lumberjack tall from Webster County somewhere.
He had thinning hair, and an impatience stare.
He hated me there.
He’d sneer at my dirty feet,
And he left my mom never felt her best.
Staying in bed for days at a time.
I stared at myself in the mirror
trying to see if my green eyes looked like his.
When he came, I’d run to Bernie’s.
Until he came.
Then there was Jason, a mason with Tiltonsville
Construction. He liked pounding bricks like
he liked pounding my mama. At least that’s what he told me
with a grin that would’ve been a sin if we had the same bloodline.
I hope he’s not my Dad, the looks that he’d give…
I like to pretend my memory’s a sieve and
they’ve slipped through the drain
after my shower when he’d leave.
Never when he was there.
My Mama hated to be called a whore,
but her door swang open more often then not.
And after their muddy tracks stained our welcome mat,
we’d hitch a ride to the country store and could buy food that week.
She was never sure,
She could never tell,
Or at least she’d never say
So the secret of my daddy’s name
Died with her that day.
I took this week’s prompt from The Reverie Journal: Daddy Issues to write a short poem about Addy’s parentage from my current novel that I’m working on, “Blood Roses and Honey Suckles.” The last poem on here was about Addy’s mama. It only made sense to write an ode to her daddy. If you have a poem about fathers, check out the post and link up.
Let me know what you think in the comments.