I learned from my father the gift of day
The luxury of deep breathing
The extravagance of self-cleansing.
I learned the undoubtable grace of moderation
and the noxious destruction of a glut.
Like an artillery of abnormal cells
infesting uncontrollably.
I learned to clench when I heard
his cries
To ignore those
pleading eyes
That “he’ll get better”
were lies
The sight of IVs I grew to despise.
I learned to squeeze tight when he held out his hand
To outlast our moments that slipped through like sand
That relief came in the form of a drug
What do you say when he begs you to pull the plug?
I learned to silence emotions when not needed
To hold back tears for they only invaded
I learned to ensure that my happiness was contagious
and my despair–
contained.
I learned the magic of makeup around the eyes
How bitten nail polish could be reapplied
That father was only for hugging and
my pillow; the victim of suffering.
I learned from my father to bash on my mother
To pamper him and smother while we
painted masks on each other
Waterproofed to deceive, our strain he
mustn’t conceive.

I learned that to avoid boiling water, you
shut the lid.
To put out a fire, you
cover it up.
So I scrubbed bubbles onto his back
Waited out his phlegmy coughs
Sowed a smile onto my trembling lips and
patched the cracks of my mislead eternity.

After all, I was told that
each day
was a gift.