Being a father.
This is difficult.
I am one,
I am the son of one,
I am the son of many
Gone before
And never known.
I’ve never known
The one I have
And he has known
The same of me.
We are two strangers,
Too strange
In too many ways.
We’ll never know each other now,
We’ll never have that thing,
That father, son, and Sunday roast,
Family thing.
Maybe it’s that,
The way we’ve been,
That makes it sometimes hard
For me to be
The father I should
To my own boy.
I’ve set bad examples,
I know I have.
I still do.
I’m slack and selfish,
Stubborn,
Bad tempered,
Though occasionally nice.
I haven’t guided him,
Advised him,
Haven’t really talked to him,
When I should have done
Or even could have done.
I left him to grow into himself,
Like I was left
To become the man I am.
And look how that turned out!
But hey,
The thing I did do,
The thing I did right,
The thing I’ll do ’til the day I die
Was love him.
Always have.
Always will.
Writing Me Up 
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