I am the old bell-bottom jeans that sit patiently in the back of the closet
waiting to come back into style.
I am that monthly subscription that he is expected to pay for
yet never gets use out of.
I am there to remind my dad of a prime time of his life that he has no plans of returning to.
“Your dad is a trendy guy. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky” is the title they have crowned me with
Lucky to go months at a time without seeing my dad
Lucky to feel simple-minded for wanting a relationship with him
A relationship with he who makes me feel like an indignation
His girlfriend is nine years older than me
Why is her youthfulness admired when mine is disregarded?
A child just isn’t capable of continuing the trend
I'm not in style
But let’s not forget- i'm the lucky one for sharing blood with this voguish individual
With such a big ego to maintain, a kid merely a burden
In a few years from now,
When artys hipsters have exhausted their ideas for new innovations,
I’ll be released from my confines of the withered donation box
And i will have decided
That dads are no longer in style