Your words are
threats submerged
in the soft notes of your tone
my words make
grabs at your fatherly power
within their uncaring.
We ride
staring at the
dust-flecked windshield
kissed by the apathetic afternoon
sun.
You try
to justify your actions
without admitting
you need to tell me the whys
of your paternal
plans.
I snatch
the radio’s storm-tinted dials
when hearing
my song.
You, resenting
my daughterly control
reach your hand
to tear my melodies
and listen to ’60s
men sobbing about
perfect love.

I scowl
at the rearview mirror
blocking your
sight
looking at the ironic flower
behind my disgusted ear
and feeling
so H. Caulfieldy
driving with you.
Dad.