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I buried my father in May
The same month of my birth
A half century before
Childhood memories closest to “happy”
Are from being rocked to sleep
Not by arms meant to hold you—
But curled up in the wheel well of his Impala
Bouncing down the streets of south LA
While he delivered drugs out of the hidden cash box at his feet like some corrupt predecessor to Doordash
My uncle was always riding shot gun on these trips that became a strange men’s only club
Both men now gone
One faced his regrets in prison and the other made his final apology in a lonely hospital bed
I buried my father in May
When delicate spring flowers were just beginning to peek out of their hiding spots
Bright pinks and yellow bold in their sharp contrast to the months of grey water, grey clouds,
grey raindrops covering everything in dismay, moss and mold
In this town where mountain meets the sea
I buried my father in May
& the world felt safer—
And I was liberated of a life sentence imposed upon me without my consent:
Keep him away from your sisters
Do the things he can’t seem to do
Smile as if nothing is odd when he objectifies
The waitress
Nurse
Stranger at church
Do not
Let him be alone
Do not let him be alone
With any little girl
Do not let him
I buried my father in May
Thirty years I waited for him to die
And take with him the pervasive hatred of women he learned in the 50’s as he was tasked with
watching over 8 siblings while his battered mother was forced into sex work
Never was he angry with the fist—
Always seething under the surface
Because of the one woman who had no other option
But to take it