Three years old:
Where’s Daddy?
Not here.
He’s never here.

Eleven years later:
I get home from school.
The answering machine starts talking to me:
“Can’t get together this weekend.
Busy.
Love you.”
Beeeeeep

And that’s it.
Routinely, he called.
Like he does every other Thursday.

I want to say I hate him,
But deep down I know:
I love my dad,
Like I should.
We don’t talk much,
But I really wish we would.

Ten years from now:
Who knows?
Maybe I’ll forget all that.
Maybe I’ll forget how he was never there-
How he didn’t care-
Maybe it will all be different.

But I wouldn’t count on it.