Eulogy of my father

My father wouldn’t even show my picture to his friends. He
told them about his prodigy daughter,
the one who was going to be some great
something-or-other. He was embarrassed of
the real me; the one that gave the cat a haircut, the soldier’s
daughter taught never to cry.
I tried to disappoint him.
I’m no chiffon-winged angel or china doll face,
I hated the perfect burden he put on me and
wanted him to know how far from grace I’d fallen. His
perfect little girl, dead in the water and the truth is
an illusion that died with his sight.
When I was young, I used to hide my peas under the couch.
Once I poured a glass of milk under there too.
I was almost raped by one of his friends.
I was there the day Ed got shot.
Sometimes I fuck out of anger at him.
I hated his pretentious dreams.
I think about his funeral, and how
I might have cried.

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