Unfinished Business

Out of anger I have sworn
not to miss my father.
Out of loyalty to his victims,
I refuse to remember
the date of his death
or anything but his crimes.

But I was there at the end,
before I fully knew,
and it was late January.
Was it two or three
years ago? I pretend
not to care, but the cost
of not having a father is high,
even for an old man like me.

Others speak of fond memories
and there must be many but
I can’t forgive what he did
so I refuse to receive all
he also gave—the kindness and
caring that watched over me
and made sure I was safe.

I was one of his precious little boys.
His hands were big and careful
and strong and I used to wonder
if mine would ever grow
to such generous proportions.
He gave us baths and would sing
and make things fun. Sometimes
he even let us walk on the ceiling.

If there was room for it all
I would surely miss him so.