An Exaggerated Form Of My Father

by steadfast twilight

My father comes in the form of
a child support check once a week.

His face is the return address in the
upper left hand corner of the envelope.

His warm, embracing arms;
the flap that seals the envelope shut.

And his heart is the contents inside the envelope for the day.
And I cry every time I open him because I'm afraid I'm hurting him.
I'm afraid I'm cutting him open like a surgeon performing a bypass.

When I'm done looking at what's inside, I put the envelope down. Empty. Sitting with all the other mail and envelopes strewn on the kitchen table.