TRAGIC Poem: He Tried, Sorta, by Jordan Wetherell

Racing on bikes and letting me win at 4 years old
Playing NASCAR on the playstation
Doing donuts in the empty, frozen parking lot

Yelling and breaking the broom
Or was it the sink?
Daddy, I’m sorry I don’t know how to clean very well
I’m 8

Telling me you’re proud of me
Cheering me on at choir concerts
Giving me a dollar if I put your clothes in the dryer

Coming home angry every day
I’m afraid to shut the microwave too loud
Daddy, I’m sorry I got hungry before bed
I’m 11

I ran out of good memories
I suppose this structure of poem is all fucked up now
Just like us, right dad?

Dad, does it feel like you’re still in 1973 sometimes?
Your dad hitting you with a belt for existing?
Your mom drinking and hitting him too?

Dad, I know you weren’t dealt the best hand in life
But you can’t scream at mom over your court ordered anger management
When you’re the one who got into a barfight
Plus, she’s afraid you’re going to kill her one day

I don’t go home anymore
I won’t tolerate abuse from any man anymore, including you
I hate you, dad
I’m 26

Dad, why did you have to drink and then get on your motorcycle all of the time
You really thought it wouldn’t catch up to you?
Now there’s a cross on the side of the road that people drink and drive to once a year
I’ve never visited it

I don’t want you back

But I wish I could be the person I used to be before I saw you in a casket
You haven’t hurt anyone in four years
So I don’t hate you anymore
In fact, I love you now more than ever
There’s nowhere for me to put it
What do I do now, dad?