Tag Archives: writing

I feel silly having such human, girly emotions while the country is in literal flames (fvckICE,btw) but I have been thinking about my reasons for writing this poem a lot recently and tbh, I want it out of my head thankyouverymuch.

So, let’s write it out and get some decent sleep, shall we?

Looking back over my father’s life, I can acknowledge there were plenty of things present to cause him to be easily overwhelmed with fatherhood and responsibility, and I acknowledge he may not have necessarily been able (capable? willing?) to access adequate supports which may have made things better for all of us, so . . . am I an angry daughter? Am I an empathetic mother?

Loving my own children may be the only thing that has allowed me to continue to see humanity in my father. That perhaps he just wasn’t meant to be a dad and I should cut him a break for it because he was once a child too and his childhood may not have been that great.

But, wasn’t I also a child?

Onto the point and the reason for the poem #cringe

My dad was my hero. He could do literally no wrong. More than once, I can remember him hitting my mom and thinking she absolutely deserved it

I wanted to have his attention as much as I could (and as much as my mother would allow — that’s another blog post) — even if it meant I was in the line-of-fire.

My father only let us kids hang around him when he was doing whatever he was doing. He was never interested in what I liked, but I learned a lot about nails and wood and pinup girls and beer and Queen. He was always ready for nails and wood and pinup girls and beer and Queen.

My dad had to be in the perfect mood to listen to me.

The right amount of coffee.
The right amount of nicotine.
The right amount of alcohol.
The right amount of uninterrupted time to drop his morning deuce.
(Bonus if he also finished his cross-word)

I learned my dad’s shit-schedule so I could plan when to talk to him without him putting me through a wall for approaching him, ya’ll. And it was all to do things I don’t particularly have interest in.

I sat through epic orations of Baseball statistics as he meticulously organised his cards. My brothers would get banished to their bedrooms because they were too loud and too physical but I did not mind being a statue on the floor next to his La-Z-Boy.

I would make myself so incredibly small in the garage, where my dad would be hunched over his workbench. Cut-off jeans, button-down shirt open to reveal his tan belly. Cigarette perched between two fingers while he measured something. His dark hair curling over the edge of his baseball cap. Beer in a cozy. The boys would want to hammer and bang and saw — I also wanted to do these things, but expressing so got you banished — so I was content with watching him work.
Sometimes, he would be generous and hand me a few wood scraps and some nails and tell me to build The Next Big Thing.
Once, he threw a wire brush at my leg. I can remember it feeling so heavy and hurting before I realised the brush was sticking out of my skin; I had thought it just glanced off, like everything else.

I would always end up being sent away for a stupid reason.

I sneezed.
I had to use the bathroom.
I asked a question.

And every time it happened, every time I heard that intake of breath and that buildup of, “Goddamnit, Fauna!” rumbling up from his naked chest with all the putrid alcohol from his guts, I hated myself.

I vowed that I could master myself in such a way I never needed to sneeze again.

Never use the bathroom again.

Never ask a question again.

And it did nothing but hinder me as I came of-age in the world. I was unprepared, uneducated, and felt wholly unwanted.

And I hated myself.

Now, I often wonder if that was the outcome he wanted?

I am ashamed of the tree I fell from, but not the one I grew, is all I can say. I really let this old white man fuck me up.

Ope.

Love, a Fatherless Daughter 🖤

This collection of blog posts will include poetry, retellings, introspection, and train-of-thought additions until I decide I have got it all out and can breathe. I recently published a poetry book that coincides, ‘My Father, the Mountain’ — you can find more information and follow the blog at www.faunalewiswrites.com