today my father cradled me in his arms
for the first time
in eight years
and said,
I love you.
I love you,
and cried
into my shoulder.
tell me,
father,
where was your shoulder
when I needed to cry?
you left me
your baby girl
your daughter
for the cold plastic
and rubber
of your favorite remote control.
did you think of me
while you were plastered
to the couch,
drooling
on what we could have shared?
no.
you turned the volume up
or changed the channel.
you flopped over,
and finished your slumber.
while I screamed your name
for eight years.
this feels
to me
a bit like remote control.
