my father
My father is nothing but my father. He isn’t my dad. He isn’t my dad just because you could see his face in me. He isn’t my dad because my blood is his blood. He isn’t my dad because he named me. No, he’s my father. I notice it every time I call him “daddy”. I notice it when he puts his arms around me to hug me. I notice it when my family refers to him as “my dad”. He let me down. He disappointed me. I loved him more than I loved anybody and now he’s nothing to me. I’m not who he is. I look at him and I can’t see any part of me in him. I can’t see him in who I am and who I grew up to be. He was never there for me. I grew up without a father figure and I’m freakin’ proud of myself that I did. Because I don’t need him and I don’t need anybody being my daddy or anybody being my boyfriend. Thanks to you, daddy. Sometimes I wished that someone else was my father, do you know that? Just look how everybody talks about you. That’s my father they’re talking about. And I hate it. I hate how unconditional love isn’t enough anymore. But I’m all grown up now and you’re not my hero anymore. Maybe you never really were. I used to miss you. I used to cry every time I had to leave you. But you know what? I’m glad I didn’t grow up with you being my dad.
I’m really sorry, Dad. I hate myself for feeling this way, but I do.
