My father’s face
is often shrouded  
cloudy with cigarette smoke as he shoos me away,
rebuffing his little girl’s attempts for affection  
protecting me from a hazard
only he brings into our home.
My father’s face  
is often faraway
like seeing him in a fog,
I cup his face in my hands but I can never see him clearly.
My father’s face  
is often wrapped up
in thoughts and grand schemes  
that will always be bigger than me.
My father’s face
is often elsewhere
turned towards a world I have only seen in glimpses
We speak across the table
but I can never seem to reach him.
My father’s face
is often fractured
I try to put him back together again
with the scraps of his life he would offer me
but I never seem to have all the pieces.

———
Sick is my collection of unpublished poetry.
You may read more of it here.

For my editorial work, click here.
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