It has come again to my mind that my dad wrote a few poems over the years. None of them survive, as far as I know.
I suppose I don’t often think of that because his one poem I vaguely remember caused me a lot of guilt. Basically, it was about me asking for something in the store and how he bought it for me, even though he couldn’t really afford it. After reading that, I never again asked for anything from my parents.
My memory of him is so complicated. His anger and addiction. His love of fishing. His great sense of humor. His rage and fear over his failing health. His delight in Darcy, for the brief time he had with her. The time he cheered so hard for the Hoosiers he turned the chair over. The times he hit my mom. That time I stared him down, refusing to let it happen again.
This memory of him writing poetry comes back to me out of deep time. Standing there in that room reading that poem, written in his distinctive handwriting, guilt washing over me. Him explaining that he loved giving me things and that he never meant to make me feel that way. Me, crying, resolving never to want again.
That angry, addicted man, who loved to joke, who loved children, who loved me. The cause of great suffering as a man, who as a boy was willing—rifle in hand—to defend his own mother from his own father. Recording himself singing, so hesitatingly, “Amazing Grace.” Writing poetry.