Hurt I’ve asked him

to stop showing up

‍

two hours early,

he tries not

‍

to look at me

when I open the door

‍

and succeeds.

If the newborn’s

‍

down for a nap,

it's the toddler

‍

he goes to.

If the toddler’s

‍

asleep, too,

it's our forgotten

‍

dog he serenades,

asking how her week

‍

has been and

Did you miss

‍

me as much

as I missed

‍

you? In therapy

I’m asked

‍

if I felt safe

as a child.

‍

In my living

room, my father’s

‍

the patron saint

of fun — better

‍

than I am

at make believe

‍

and building

whole cities

‍

out of the blocks

my sister

‍

handed down.

Sometimes I wonder

‍

if he's been

letting himself in

‍

when I'm at work,

looking out

‍

from my desk

at the leaves

‍

waiting like children

to be picked up

‍

and fixated

on the poem about

‍

the dead man

float and the one

‍

about my mother

as a punchline.

‍

Often I find

myself stuck

‍

on this image

of him opening

‍

his dresser drawer

to show me

‍

everything I'd

inherit when he was

‍

gone — confused

I didn't seem excited

‍

and nudging me

to pick something

‍

I could keep

in my room

‍

to begin

remembering him by.

‍

When it's just

the two of us —

‍

Victoria managing

to get both boys

‍

in a bath

before bed —

‍

we don't know

what to say

‍

or how much space

to give: my father

‍

searching the photos

on the fridge

‍

to see if I’ve added any

of him back

‍

while I kneel

by another basket

‍

of warm clothes

and fold them

‍

like my mother

folded ours, rehearsing

‍

what she’d do

when she was free.

‍