pt. one

my father

has always been my father,

but on most days,

he is not my father;

he is the breadwinner

of this family.

today, he is still

the breadwinner

of my family.

instead of spending time

with his family,

he is driving three hours

to and from—

underneath the sun’s

unforgiving rays

in a white car

nissan or not—

to buy trees

so that the house he has been

trying to sell

(for almost a year)

will sell

& finally,

there will be money

flowing through our hands

again.

pt. two

my mother likes to tell me

my father

has always been my father.

when i was younger,

he bathed me,

dressed me,

took the examination thrice

to come to a foreign world.

i don’t remember them,

nor him,

though.

not the afternoon walks in the park,

neither the lives of flowers i ended early

so i could gift them to him,

nor the stroller with my sister inside that

i wanted to push but

my father said no.

(all at the age of 2 < x < 6.)

one day, my father called us all

into the living room.

then, he pressed a button &

the television screen came alive.

as old videos (on DVDs) stirred up memories

i'd long forgotten,

i watched

a young girl

walk through fields of colors.

at one point, she stumbled &

lost her balance.

but she didn't fall because

the man walking next to her

held on to her.

he held her tiny, crumpled fist

in his hand.

many years later, i

watched the girl i was

many years before.

i watched my father

be the father

my mother always said he was.