I remember I'm lucky

by: shira

I have a father
Mine is a man
I see in the morning
And blink through at night
My eyes reflect photographs
He’s burned behind buildings
Of our hands interlocked
While I swing in the back yard he built

The car that he drives
Is his home when he’s gone
My mother and I
Two typical shames
That must be escaped
So I wash my eyes of his skid marks
Staring at the kitchen table without crumbs

My father’s a man whose mornings I mourn
He’s gone from my memory
And sticks to still thoughts
My skin is still burning
I fell from his knee

He wants to be friends
I tried to hold hands
He said I had to stop crying first
A child
Much a busted hubcap
Scraping against what makes it all run

He knows I’m his daughter
I know I’m his daughter
I know that I’m lucky
But want even more
I’m ungrateful, unnerving, uncommon among
Girls who grab onto their fathers and weep

I’m lucky I know and can feel that way
But I look to her before I speak
Knowing my place
Hiding my face
Since I could read my mother’s mouth