Photo by Tracy Fuentes
You are spontaneous, and wild.
You were an idea of a home filled with security and safety, until I learned you were the cause of my anxiety with your high life.
I dreamt up an imagery that you were all I needed.
You are too free to be my father, let alone a home – at least my home.
When you did live at home, we were rooted in chaos with constant arguments, broken glass from pictures that you broke, and holes in the wall from the punches you missed.
You will only be as good as my mind makes you to be, but that isn’t our reality.
There are 12 years of lost time between you and me. There’s a lot to catch you up on.
This is the postcard from the address you kept on your record, so the police would show up at our doors instead.
This is the postcard filled with this life you had nothing to do with.
This postcard has no destination, so just like you, I know I won’t get a response. This will probably return to sender.
Aren’t I pathetic? Keeping you updated, and keeping you in mind after all this time? Maybe this is my last time reaching out as I can, or maybe this is my goodbye.
Either way, I wish you well.