Hopefully
it’s the McDonald’s trip that
you remember where you
got to play in the ball pit
for the first time and drink
coke but still were made to
get a burger you didn’t want
instead of chicken nuggets
you did and not the fact that
you were taken there as an
abstract apology for your
father hitting you in the
middle of yelling at your
step-mother because you
asked if he was going to hit
her and he chose to scream
that you should be on his
side / he punches you as
usual and asks again and
again if you want him to hit
her instead, Huh, son? I love
you, son, you made me do
this, son, it hurts me just as
much as it hurts you, son,
to break your tooth on my
knuckle and claim it was
chipped at a skating rink
I never took you to.
*
Dad
When I
grew
to be three
inches
taller than
him
he would
tell people
he could
still kick
my ass.
Still.
*
O. Farraige writes poetry and lives in SC. His work will appear in Divot and Sunspot Lit later this year.
