A Blend of Real and Imaginary Fathers


Son.​
The spark, lit

by someone else’s fire

Don’t worry,
I’ll be there.
Sitting with no past.
Abdicated. In my chair.

And when I speak,
Will have no accent,
Because you can’t imagine me.

I didn’t give you enough
To flesh me out.

She asked me
And I bit.

And in the biting
Shut myself up.

I hear you say you love me.

Don’t make presumptions from my silence.

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