by L.B. Woodgate

Created on: May 05, 2010

The man who fathered me

often lacked diplomacy

and seldom showed he cared.

He worked long hours, not skipping a beat

and afterwards would make his retreat

to a dimly lit bar, to imbibe and to share

With his friends he’d cavort

but they weren’t the sort

he’d pal around with at any other time

He’d head home when he was done

Deal with a wife who felt shunned

Then would pass out in his chair before nine.

He wasn’t permissive, abusive or absent 

And there were good times and special events

Like vacations, Thanksgiving and Christmas Day

But though in body he’d be there

His thoughts oft seemed elsewhere

And though amongst us, he appeared far away

He and Mom split after I left home

He finally had that life alone

That he seemed often to reflect upon

And yet when he died years later

I found myself surprisingly not bitter

‘Cause I am after all his Son

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