a poem about fathers

and the family heirlooms they pass down

fathers

nico wilkinson

she calls me a bitch
in a fight i never asked for.
the gut punch that shuts us both
up and out. 

within moments, she’s kissing me
with apologies, her lips rough
like the first boy i loved.
the smell of his dad’s
cigarette-stained life
fills my nose.

so many fathers
have wrought hell upon my life
through their children.

i can hear the rumble of their voices
as they apologize into their wives
mouths, falling upon my own, again and again,

i will never do it again.

i don’t know why i am this way.
i just don’t know.

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I wrote this poem a few years ago, but it felt apt to share this father’s day, which is a time to celebrate the fathers that support and love us, and also a time to be mindful of what family heirlooms we might be carrying, that it might be best to put down. This poem and many others are in my debut handmade full-length anthology, The Weeds Grow Anyway.