I'm wishing that you

were here to talk to,

so that we could share

one another's hearts

and though love was 'stranged,

forgiveness abound'.

Closure came when I

sought you out. We hugged,

we cried and assured

each other, resolved

to rebuild. Only

the city took you.

I never mourned you

and I still miss you,

but I am like you.

My father taught me how to always be present for family--

by never being there.

He taught me the importance of respecting your wife,

by belittling, battling, and battering his own.

He was a master at finances,

stealing my birthday money so he could buy cocaine.

His teachings of tolerance were exceptional--

screaming "gay!" just because I was shy around girls.

Our home was filled with his presence.

The way he created the family atmosphere

showed me how to create a home the kids wouldn't regret

returning to each day after school.

Yes, my father even taught me how to love

by never loving any of us.

My father taught me how to dance.

Not ballet, not tap, not jazz or hip-hop—my father taught me how to dance around people, how to tiptoe gracefully through conversations to avoid being an inconvenience, to avoid being disliked. My father taught me that I must be careful with my words, that I must be meticulous in what I say and when I say it. My father taught me how to dance in uncomfortable shoes while others stroll comfortably, my father taught me to be anxious.

My father didn't mean to teach me how to dance, but the instruction happened naturally. I learned through experience, I learned through interaction. If he was angry, I shouldn't talk, I should sit in the discomfort of his frustration. If he was tired, I shouldn't talk, I should sit and avoid being noticed. If he was frustrated, I shouldn't talk, I should anticipate his needs and act accordingly. If he was happy, I could talk, I could say words so long as they were packaged appropriately. I had to dance my way through my childhood, and I became good at it, I became so good at it. There's a verbal filter that permanently examines the words I intend to say, there's a sense of restraint that guides my limbs and guides my actions. I thank my father for teaching me how to dance.

My father also gave me intentional lessons: my father taught me how to fish and how to ride a bike; my father taught me how to pitch a tent and start a campfire; my father taught me how to use a saw and how to ski down steep terrain; my father taught me how to drive over alpine passes and how to whittle.

My father taught me how to survive in the wilderness while simultaneously teaching me how to survive in everyday interactions. It's funny—I don't need to dance in nature, and when I'm alone with the trees and flowers I smile and sit down, I take off the pointe shoes and rest for a moment. But when I go back—and I always go back—I put those pointe shoes back on, I dance through life, I bend and sway to the wishes and needs of others.

My father taught me how to dance, which is funny, since he's no ballerina, since he's not very graceful himself.

My father isn't a bad person, and he's improved through the years, but he taught me how to dance and I do not know how to stop.

My feet are sore and my body aches. I wish I could rest, but I know I cannot stop until the performance has finished.

my father

once told me

son

fishing isn’t about the chase

it’s about the wait

he said

confusing skill with fate

i looked at the surface

and thought

that it depended

upon the spot

it doesn’t matter

how patient one was

it mattered where

one’s hook dropped

my father looked on

distraught

and released these words

with great haste

he said

son

your problem is

you’re always in a race

but the more you rush

isn’t going to make that fish

take the bait

the reason why i catch more fish

he continued

trying to relate this situation

to our own sakes

is

because i

leave my line in the lake

while you

you’re constantly

pulling yours out

how ironic it was

that during our many

conversations

he was usually

pulling away

from me...

- Shitolian 2019

check out more lessons like these in my books: Shitolian, Book Smart, An Open Wound, Writer's Block: A Book of Shitty Poems

The nights are the hardest part

sentimental and full of

wasted opportunity

lost card games, two dollars

a man if you can call it that

it, him, a stranger you can hardly recognize

a pair of eyes you could never really see into

I thought I knew how to love

I'll try harder than he did

I try harder than he does

So what was the point of all this?

Humans are flawed

Life isn't easy

It wasn't someone you had to let in

He was there and now

not

The days can go by in the blink of an eye

But the four hours

before you sleep

when all the work is done

you can't help but weep

it erupts when there is no sun

and no matter what it is

the nights are the hardest part

during my childhood, you taught me about tools. this lead to me being my own handy man.

You taught me about cars and engines. i miss how i set on your lap while you drove, pretending to control along with you. i miss falling asleep on the couch and waking up safely tucked into my bed.

during my teenage years we never saw eye-to-eye and always seemed to bicker.

we never spoke anymore and car drives alone with you were awkward. it was a blessing if two words were spoken. however, during my break-ups you somehow found ways to guide me and cheer me up. well, even gave me lesson... which i never followed thank to you for the stubborn genes you carried over to me.

most people said that i was a replica of you and i never wanted to believe it. simply because at times i felt replaced by my younger siblings.

however,

the most important thing you have taught me, is what a man is.

for many years i thought i would run away from you, yet i found the man exactly like you who later became my fiancé. and through this, i got to understand you better. to see things that i blankly stared at.

you taught me to be independent, strong, proud, stubborn, a risk taker and what it meant to love and be loved.

you taught me me responsibility, stability and resilience.

you taught me that regardless of your age, you never to old to chase your dream.

you taught me how to hustle for my wants and needs.

you taught me how to love and hate at the same time but still have the good out way the bad.

My father taught me the importance of family, faith, being kind and charming to whoever you meet, and hard work. Besides speaking of these things, he also showed me through example. He constantly revealed his work ethic through his job, and even helped with my Boy Scout troop, using his own vacation time to join me for Summer camp. He continues to not only be there for me and my sister, but he also fully enjoys his latest assignment as a grandfather to our children. There is so much more I can write about how my dad has enriched my life, but I will wrap this up by saying that thanks to him, Father's Day is one of my favorite days of the year. I always loved my dad's pride and enthusiasm for this holiday that celebrates the joy of being a father, and I embraced the same appreciation once I become a father myself. Just like my dad does, I love celebrating this holiday with a Father's Day donut, reminding the other fathers out there to keep making a difference, and looking back and forward on the always exciting journey of parenthood.

Rain was falling outside as Dad loaded up the truck with trash on a Sunday morning. After he finished he came inside and asked if I wanted to go to the dump with him. I said yes, grabbed my purple raincoat, and hopped in Dad's beat-up Chevrolet he had owned since his early 20's. I sat and watched the rain drip down the passenger side window as we drove through our town, listening to the local country station on the radio. When we got to the dump, Dad got out and emptied the truck of all the trash bags. After, we stopped at a gas station. I went in with him and he told me to pick out candy for myself and my brother who chose to stay home, then he grabbed a case of beer. Once we had gotten everything, we went to the counter to pay. Dad wanted to pay in cash but didn't have enough money to buy everything. I looked up at him, ready to take the candy and put it back. But Dad, without thinking, told the clerk to "keep the beer". We left the gas station and on the way home all I could feel was the love my dad had for me.

At seven years old, this event showed me the seemingly small ways in which people love. My dad loves me enough to want to run errands with me, even if I can't help or if there is little to no conversation. He loves me enough to want to spend his extra money on candy for my family rather than on himself. My dad taught me that love isn't wrapped up in giant moments, or the number of times someone says, "I love you". Love is in small gestures hidden in plain sight.