Dad

by Cassandra Erica Leo

Published in New Forum, Winter 2021

Dad

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

From the leaking faucet,

Squeaking echo when my feet hit the shower door

As I lay crying upon the bathroom floor

A blurry light, flickering,

Illuminates beige towels, a toothbrush

Still wet from the night before,

As cold as the tile on my knee

Blood again. Running down my throat

My nose unleashing the red torrent it so often does under stress;

I don’t want this. He doesn’t want me.

I thought I had a father once.

This rug, so soft upon my cheek

Smells faintly of detergent - someone cares

Don’t they? Or am I an obligation,

A pet rescued from the streets where that stray still lives

Childhood - fresh cut grass, eucalyptus memories

Pain now, pain in my throat, my eyes are drowning

Lawn turned to grey, trees to stumps

He stomped it all to dust just minutes ago,

Walked away screaming at the world

That he couldn’t accept this, no, not now

It was my fault, all of it, because I hated him.

No. I loved him when I thought I had a father.

I loved him before I was left here, sat on the cold steps

In front of dark windows and an empty porch.

I walk inside, still numb from the winter winds

And see his other backpack beside my bed.

I simply stare at it and its dirty socks spilling outward,

Stained with holes, sad, defeated, just like everything he uses.

Just like everyone he uses. I notice my nose is bleeding now.

Too long spent in the cold; I need a warm shower to wash it away.