Two years since I’d spoken to a father,
too discomforted to tell him
I don’t call you dad. His
voicemails landed like birds,
irritated with the branch
flailing between talons,
grooving smooth between grasp.
He taught me to fry onions
and season venison, but not
to balance checkbooks or marry
once. When younger, I thought
cheating was hereditary, but I’ve settled
for social conditioning, and set to break
habits too like him. Once, my boyfriend, folding
bed sheets beside me, asked, Why won’t you call him?
(Okay, seriously. Help!)
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