dear daddy

dear daddy, we used to walk
on Tuesdays
your young father laughter
rang and rang
over the park swings,
thirty to thirty-five and
sometimes you woul take me out of school
to swing and slide and read.

dear daddy, all the pieces
of me
that are secretly you
I can't put my finger on but
I sure wish
I had your eyes,
even though mine are
forest clearing wild sunshine
and fields of gold.
I look in the mirror
I wonder where you are in me
as I touch belly thigh foot shoulder
nose ear cheek eyelash.
You must be in my face,
because mom is in my feet.

I curl back my lips
you in my teeth, daddy?
my tongue, pink and red
and gilded silver?
my smile, easy and shy?
Yes. In my cheeks, too,
I can see you, apple round
full of unrelenting pursuit of the
perfect
rock star sneer.
(I don't know who we're kidding with that, daddy,
we're too full of joy for music to be condescending)

dear daddy, the untouchable parts
of me
are you,
the restless tap-tap-tapping rhythm
on tables and legs
bending of book pages
and how my hands
clench
or curl naturally.
Mom always tries
to straighten my fingers but
I like to think they started doing that
in the womb
from all your years of music,
like hands for an instrument
was a star-wish you made for me in California,
a secret wish,
like my gender.

dear daddy, I think
you always trusted me with myself
better than I did
because of all those untouchable parts,
kept me being secretly you.