My Dear, Dear Father

My dear, dear father

told me, 'anyone ever tells

you that you aren't good enough,

you tell me, alright?

and I'll take care of you.'

and I never doubted that

my dear, dear father

would do exactly as he said.

but when my mother,

my ever pushy mother,

insisted on a divorce,

my dear, dear father

was yanked away from me,

and I, a bullied child

in a family where nobody

cared about the youngest little girl,

was left all alone,

with nobody to watch out for me.

my dear, dear father

used to teach me things,

like the Miranda warnings,

and actus reus and mens rea

in a court of law, and he taught me

everything I would have never known otherwise.

he taught me the five stages of grief,

because he was of the opinion that 

everyone should read Kubler-Ross

at some point in their lives.

my dear, dear father was such a busy man,

yet he still found time inbetween

being a lawyer and trying to remember

when the last time that he had slept and eaten was

to teach his little daughter how to play hockey

and so I'm trying to remember

my dear, dear father,

and all that comes to mind

is how proud he looked 

the day I rode my bicycle for the first time.

and I can't help

but wish that maybe someone will look

that way at me for something I've written,

or perhaps a piece of art.

and I wish that

my dear, dear father

could see me now.

The End

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