Do you accept your family?
Despite the things they say to hurt you?
Do you turn the other cheek
Each time they blame and scold you?

Are you okay with no boundaries?
Never hearing a genuine "I'm sorry."
Do you just shrug things off cause,
"Hey, they're your family"

Or do you not accept that?
I've felt so conflicted lately
Because of family with no boundaries
Family that don't accept me, but want acceptance from me.

They always told me to say sorry as a child,
If I hurt someone else, I was wile.
Even as an adult, I'm always wrong
About others, the world and my own mental health.

I have to apologize in the end.
I have to pick up the phone to check in.
I have to put on an ever changing mask to ensure I won't be hurt again-
I try to explain it and once again, I'm a child.

I say "I" too much
I should ignore everything that offends me,
Assume the best of family because they're family.
I'm family but have to change and ignore my feelings for them to accept me.

Nicky, the neighbor’s dog, drags a road **** home.
A beautiful pelt like those fox shoulder garments women wore in the
      forties.
But the head is crushed beyond recognition—maybe it’s a fox and that’s
      why Nicky, a canine, is conducting this wake on our front lawn.

Loretta, my wife’s mother, is in the hospital again. Forty years of Crohn’s
      disease has finally broken her.
It may take some time but she won’t bounce back from this episode.
None of us are sorry to see her die, not even Loretta. There will be a
      thunderous downpour during her last hour.

I like the story about the nuns hitting Peg in school–contumacy is a sin.
Emile and Loretta considered it an inappropriate punishment for their
      cherished adopted daughter.
So they pulled her out of Catholic for public school. They did their own
      thinking about discipline.

Early Spring, peepers all night, then the birds take over at dawn.
      Soothing—the mourning doves.
During this half of the year, May through October, we live in a green
      bower.
We turn the house inside out, move into the mountains.

In their annual order, flowers appear in the understory: coltsfoot, hepatica
      and trillium through to the end, late purple aster, spotted joe pye and
      pearly everlasting.
We let Nicky nurse her road ****, watch over it, roll around on it.
Don’t let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in the passing lane.

i have skimmed every encyclopedia,
have gone through to limits of every book in biology,
and even went on to read depths of psychology,
but i have yet to find an answer
as to why a father could hurt his own daughter

The inheritance of loss
Often told as a tragic story
I sit here writing
while gripping onto the edges of every passing day
hoping to change the narrative of this pain
I'm sorry to my daughter;
there were too many things I never solved
I walked with this heaviness
with a dream to transform the world for you
but instead, I lost and lost
and left these wounds on your carpet
watered a grass that was already dead
and called it advocacy
The inheritance of loss
is beaded into these gold bangles
the same ones my mother gave me
the same ones I keep for you

I watched you turn young again
Lost in the supermarket
Searching for a place to be
Searching for my hand to hold

I watched my skin turn old and pale against the steering wheel
The way back home is long and
quiet and
all dirt road

Wise girl turned wiser
Wise girl turned free
Perhaps too gone to be my girl
Still, she returns to me

For Hannah

She's sitting at the
kitchen table,
Full of strep and forced
to read a book
by a mom who believes
the mind can continue to flourish
while its carrying case
suffers.

Forcing fluids,
killing biotic enemies
She sits silently
while I listen to the
Happiest Music I know,
Linus and Lucy;
She frowns,
more from pain
than distaste.

Mom cooks lasagna
and brother scouts the fridge.
Nothing looks good
She thinks.
She says.
She feels.

In the kitchen of fate, where recipes align,
There's a daughter of misfortune, a tale so intertwined.
Her father, luck's favored, with fortune at his side,
But she's taken her mother's grace as her guide.

Her mother, a tempest in life's stormy sea,
Taught her strength in adversity, resilience to be.
Though luck eluded her, in her eyes, you'd find,
A sparkle of hope, a spirit unconfined.

In the cauldron of challenges, the daughter found her way,
With a pinch of her mother's spirit, she'd never sway.
She stirred in compassion, a generous measure,
Adding empathy and kindness, her greatest treasure.

From her father, she borrowed a dash of good fortune,
But she knew in her heart, it wouldn't be her cartoon.
She'd blend it with care, mix it with her might,
For her mother's tenacity, she'd always fight.

In the oven of life, she baked her own path,
With ingredients gathered from love's aftermath.
A pinch of her father's luck, a dash of her mother's grace,
She crafted her essence, her unique embrace.

And as she emerged, a creation divine,
A daughter of misfortune, in her, stars brightly shine.
She carried her legacy, a blend so pure,
A recipe of resilience, forever endure.

He has no choice but to pound her back,
to get her to let go of my arm as she bites down hard.
She says she hates me because I pulled her hair when she was a child,
I am a vicious man who lacks control over my anger.
I don’t disagree with her memories, but she adds more than I can remember,
In the moment, I can have blind rage and not remember a few minutes before.
She thinks I hate her, but I don’t. How can I convince her otherwise now?
I am no longer Father. Dad. Pops. I am my first name.
I see the wall that I created whenever I try to talk with her,
Not made of wood, but concrete. It’s made of a Roman mixture that will last for thousands of years.
My wife says, “Give it time”, but time doesn’t erode this wall.