When I write of fathers
They are usually missing,
In prison, on the lam,
In witness protection –
Not home, to be clear.
They are unseen, yet omnipresent,
Controlling the story’s unfolding,
Like Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

I write about dead fathers –
And fathers that may as well be
Fathers who gave up their children,
Their least valued possessions,
Who wrote themselves out of their child’s life,
And abandoned their leading role in it,
As if it were a bit part, and they were bit players,
Quickly and easily forgotten.

When I write of fathers,
Human, present, and real,
I am not writing about the experience of a
Day-to-day relationship
With a living, loving father.
I don’t write about a father I saw at home
Or met at a friend’s.

I write about fathers
I have seen on the screen
And met in a book,
When I write of fathers.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: