My Dad always loved a glass
of bourbon on the rocks,
after a long days work,
before bed- anytime,
was a time to celebrate.

To say he had a problem is too
generalized.
He meant no harm:
“it's the alcohol talking.”
A term I became all too accustomed to.

I remember the old father-son days,
As we mindlessly cast on the lake for hours.
Him getting too drunk to drive,
age 13 and I turned the wheel as good as Dale Jr. already.

Dad always loved
his bourbon on the rocks.
Addicted- no;
plagued with disease.

I always wanted to share a drink with my Dad,
something we could actually bond over.
21 came around--

he never did.

Dad always loved his bourbon on the rocks.
I wish he could’ve loved it less.