I only ever missed my dad’s birthday once, growing up.
I had an exam at York, and my 18th century lit prof drove me downtown after.
He was sleeping with my class-friend, and he invited me to his apartment for a drink.
When I mentioned my boyfriend, he promptly invited two lady friends from the building over, about my age now.
One complimented my “crazy, punk clothes,” with cold rat’s eyes.
“Can I use your phone?” I said. “I want to call my dad.”
“Oh ha ha, Daddy, daddy, darling daddy,” the woman said.
I had a nice talk with dad, and told him how sad I was not to have been there.
And put the receiver down and walked straight out of that fucking pervert’s place,
Past the jealous cunts,
And onto the street where this loss took a deep breath,
That spoke of expansion, of age, and
what destruction would follow
When it left me, when you leave me.