your stepmother will call

at 1:27pm on a wet and freezing January afternoon.

She can't articulate much of anything,

or you can't hear much of anything

or all words are caught and vacuumed into a quantum vortex

because you can't remember being told

"your father is dead, and he died from an opioid overdose".

You only remember suddenly knowing, as the truth

rises from its dark bedroom, in a house

on a steep hill,

stretches its long limbs,

complains about its back,

puts on thermal long johns,

pours a cup of coffee,

kisses the top of your head.

When your father dies of an opioid overdose,

you will refrain from telling people how he died.

Until they ask if he is alive, and you will tell them he is dead.

And they will ask why he is dead, and you will tell them

"My father died of an opioid overdose."

And they will say "oh".

And they will not admit it, but you live

in grief’s iron lung and it's palpable

that they are less sorry to hear that your father is not alive.

They breathe heavy on the windows of your cylinder,

"My father died of cancer, (inhale)

before his time," (exhale).

You want to tell them that maybe your father

wasn't a good man, but he was a loving one.

He made sure you and your sister brought his

very illegal pair of brass knuckles with you when

you went anywhere alone, because

"listen, kid, I don't ever want to hear that you

started a fight, but if I find out someone put

hands on you and you didn't fight back,

I'll beat your ass worse when you get home."

And maybe that's not something you should say

to a 7-year-old girl in sunflower pants but

you know

what he really meant to say is "you are too

precious to be cruel or undone,

take this

talisman,

come home safe no matter the cost.

You are my daughter,

goliath, princess, arsonist,

mason, healer, headsman,

dancer, brawler, poet,

and I have faith you will do the right thing,

even if I go blind to what exactly that is."

When your father dies of an opioid overdose

you forgive him for shooting your art school

tuition that your dead mom gave you

into a vein between his toes, and that one time

he threw you out of the house when you were 15

because you told your therapist he was injecting your

art school tuition between his toes.

(He let your pitbull outside when the social worker came

and the lady was too scared to even get out of the car

and left.

So,

no harm done.)

You forgive him his rage of a starving dog’s gnashing maw 

that you were both caught between.

You forgive him his many death rehearsals,

 days he was swallowed and gulped down

 by the spasming throat of his grief and regret,

and you had to become efficient with your footstool

and microwave.

You remember how gentle he tried, with unsure hands, to comb your hair

into a ponytail for school,

how often he cried watching movies, and

reading books, and listening to music, and most times it

was because he had found your mother threaded in them.

That you argued over Kerouac because he

could never convince you of its “simplistic genius” and if you could

you would tell him you still despise "On the Road"

but you keep a copy on the shelf for him.

Your father is dead from an opioid overdose

and you still write him letters. You tell him of

boys that break your heart, and your own sobriety,

and how you miss Christmas at your childhood home.

You tell him brass knuckles won't work against the

worst of it, and you know he knows.

You want him to see your fists.

You want him to know all the parts you like

about yourself are really just him,

and that will always be enough.

And even if you are not good,

you are loving because

you are your father's daughter.

And you say that part out loud so they can hear.

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