Imaginary dad

I don’t remember my dad very much

He was like a ghost walking around the house

Reading the paper, smoking, drinking coffee, drinking beer

He didn’t talk to me too much or showed interest in me too much except for a few occasions where he appeared suddenly and spectacularly,

Explaining how the economy works

My mom gets mad when I tell her it’s not enough, I want more, I don’t know what

She’s the one explaining that he loves me

But she never explains why good love needs a translator like her

She never explains to me why I don’t understand his language

Am I not understanding him or is he not understanding me?

I’m thirty two and I still lie awake at four in the morning

Wondering why this question struggles at the borders of me

Why I hesitate to answer what I already know

Why it hurts more than I can hold

Yet the luxury of pain is all I have inherited

I’m too good at imagining what good love must be like

How can an imaginary dad raise a non-imaginary me?

When we were kids he was so good at play pretend

I wonder if he was playing pretend for himself, pretending he was a whole dad, being a whole dad for us

Men pretend to love me but no one hears me, they just say I’m complaining

What a luxury it is to demand more love than my family will ever know