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Father Knows Best

Toni Menden

It is impossible to mistake that smell, sticky sweet.
The aroma that always forces me to remember,
shoves its way into my nostrils like a prison matron,
sticky sweet green.

On one hand, green is the color of envy. On the other,
it is the smell of hate. How easy it is to confuse
love with hate. Matter of fact, it is impossibly easy
to hate my own father.

The man whose lackluster sperm
created me in my mother’s womb.
That piece of shit who left me
when I was nine years old and so sure
that it was all my fault.

Funny thing, this sticky sweet green smell,
it makes you remember little things.
Grandma always said to me,
“Family comes first.”
Now I know what made my father laugh so hard.

Family never comes first.
Do you know, do you fucking know
how embarrassing it can be? For a child?
The looks, the sickening understanding.
The pity from the mothers of the other children,
the damn PTA bitches who won’t let me near their kids?

I might taint their angels and we mustn’t have that.

I hate you.

I never trusted you to be truthful, I learned that lesson young.
My mother always said that you were a selfish bastard, and that
when you got the chance, you would run.

She was right, you ran. And then you blamed me. You blamed a child.

I can trust you in one way. I can always trust that, in your abject honesty,
and selfish moral code, that you will always, never failing, fuck me over.

When I was five we had a dog, his name was Clifford, and you told me
that he was going to a big farm with lots of room to run.
I asked to see the farm, to go visit. But we were always “too busy.”
You screwed over a five year old with lies, and I can see
not much has changed.

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