Daddy

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The youngest of three from the one you married

 The second youngest of five that you claim as your children.

 I was two when the divorced happened.

 I’ve been told it took two years to finalize but of course that’s a coincidence.

 I was five when I went to visit you

 You put me in front of the TV, I think jeopardy was on.

 I was seven when Ben was born

My mom had to convince your girlfriend at the time not to name him after you.

 I was eight when you left and promised to call.

The phone rang once then nothing at all.

I was ten when looking through old photographs

I asked “Mommy who’s this?” as she answered “Honey, that’s your dad.”

 I was eleven when my sister went to Florida and got to see you.

I think you called for five seconds to say “hello how are you?”

I was thirteen when you sent a group message on Facebook apologizing for never being there and how beautiful your three daughters are.

I did not reply back.

You don’t know my favorite color, my favorite animal, who my best friend is,  where I got that scar from, why I’m afraid of thunderstorms, that I don’t like pork chops, that I like to paint, that my mom says I am nothing like you.

 You never met that boy I dated for two years.

 You never saw me in a school play, never seen one of my paintings, never attended my graduation.

You may have been there to see my first steps, but you were not there as I stepped across the stage.

 You weren’t there when our house got robbed, as my mom cried in the pantry.

You weren’t there when we moved for the 10th time and I started at school number 6.

You weren’t there from years 8 to 18 and before then you are just a vague memory.

I grew up seeing what others “daddies” can be. Seeing this I can say: You are no daddy to me. 

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