The day my father proclaimed

that there was no such thing as the Father

was the day I was sitting at my kitchen counter,

when he walked back in through the front door

and the moment my name left his lips,

I knew someone was dead.


Months after, he’d enter my room for a hug while he wept-

I never had the urgency to weep as he- and he’d

be angry at me for writing a poem about his grief, but

this poem isn’t about my father’s grief,

it’s about the Father’s lack of empathy, or the lack of his existence.


And Father, way up high I want to believe

that you’re sitting on a soft cloud

watching every move I make

Along with the day I was sitting at my kitchen counter


And more kitchen counter days come for my father

He comes home with his face puffy

imagining what the death of his best friend must’ve been like

there wasn’t reason for him to know the details of his passing, but he did.


And he spoke it like it was his own experience;

I sat with him while he cried, voice cracking,

fathers aren’t allowed to weep, but with so much tragedy, how do we not?

With so much loss, how do we not?


And my entire family believes I’m a lost cause,

a prisoner to the drama queen inside,

but I think I’m sick;

a prisoner to my own chemicals.


I couldn’t bare to see the look on his face

If he lost me to the demons buried deep within

I’ve seen his face, God, after people have been taken from him,

imagining him losing me puts glass in my own heart,

but I constantly imagine myself dying anyways.


I want to believe in You, Father.

I want to believe You’re there.

I just have so much fog in my head,

so many clouds inside me,

and I don’t see You sitting on any of them.

I just see my father’s face.