I'm Sorry

For my father

I’m sorry you weren’t ready to have kids. That the truth of that statement stings. That the man you thought you were was easily bothered by 4-year-old me saying no. That a 4-year-old mistaking ketchup for poison was enough to shatter you.

I’m sorry that you bought me a guitar for my birthday. I was 8, and I never used it. I know I begged for it. I know I wanted it. But I was 8. I’m sorry you felt the need to play the guitar every night that you had us over instead of talking to us. Plopping us down in front of the TV to watch a show, only to be overshadowed by your mediocre guitar playing. A kid screaming for attention to his own children. A kid creating tension over a gift his son didn’t play. Every visitation night, like clockwork, you played a melody of rage pointed at me. But again, I was 8. You still play the guitar now, and I don’t talk to you.

I’m sorry that your father couldn’t love you. You lived 22 years without him, longing for the semblance of a father you never had. He needed proof, as if your resemblance wasn’t there, and you so willingly gave it up. Bent over for his demand. I’m sorry his love didn’t come to you unconditionally.

I’m sorry that you struggle with drinking. That you push your feelings down with a cold one. That you never learned to express yourself in a healthy way. That you have all these excuses and not an ounce of accountability. That your apologies are blanketed with no substance. The thin veil barely keeps things warm.

I’m sorry that I didn’t go to your father’s funeral. A man who despised the idea of you until you had his grandchild. A man who taught you that love was conditional. Conditions that were passed to me. Used against me. A man who ridiculed my mother. Bullied me. Screamed, yelled, and berated us. Childishly refused to get me a gift for my birthday because I wouldn’t mow his lawn. I was 11. The same man who was upset that I didn’t feel safe coming out to him. As if we had a relationship built on safety.

I’m sorry that you chased after a woman for twenty years who told you she never wanted to remarry. That you chose another family with kids that weren’t your own. That you had your kids over once or twice a week, and chose to ignore what they were exposed to. Letting the kids torture your son, fearing that he’d become a pussy. That getting locked in a dog cage was his fault and not yours. That learning to fight dirty came first, and respect came last.

I’m sorry you texted me like I was your friend. That you thought saying things to me about my mother was okay. That when I vented about her (as a kid), it opened the door for you to attack too. That you could talk to me like an adult. To tell me to clean sand out of my vagina when I was upset. I was 12. I needed a hug. I got a texted insult.

I’m sorry you had to pay child support. That I was treated as a loan you couldn’t wait to pay off. That a dollar spent on me was a contract written that I never signed. That you didn’t want to do more than that. That you would bounce checks in the process rather than communicate. That you fought so hard to claim me on your taxes, but didn’t lift a finger to fight to be a father.

I’m sorry that you have to deal with me being gay. That I chose to be a political battalion to your entire worldview. That I chose to love men and choose to not love you in the same breath. That my identity showed you my disdain for you. A mirror reflecting back the cruelty of being a father. Like the universe has been out to get you since the day I was born.

I’m sorry you cheated. That you partied with your girlfriends. That my mom didn’t let you have your cake and eat it too. That you lied throughout your life and couldn’t handle being caught. That I hold you to a standard you refuse to meet.

I’m sorry that you saved me. That you donated blood when I was a baby. Sealing a life debt that I wasn’t even aware of. That you held that over my head, too. That money wasn’t the only value I had to pay back; it was my life I owed you. That you were keeping score.

I’m sorry you feel the need to text me on my birthday. Even after being told to stop. That you need to feel a demonic rush to feel alive. The cheap narcissistic dopamine coursing through your veins. To send a message equivalent of a “you up?” text at 4 am. I’m not thinking about you on my birthday; no one is.

I’m sorry that you claim my mother raped you to have me. That you thought that you needed to say something so damning to strike me. To verbally kick and emotionally scream. Creating a mental rift in my mind was the best attack you could make.

I’m sorry that you didn’t get the life you dreamed of. That you weren’t the father you thought you’d be. You learned in real time the differences between wanting a baby and being a father. Both are different.

I’m sorry that you didn’t have a father. That you took that anger out on me. That I should’ve been grateful for access to you. But I didn’t have a father, and you knew that.

“Will you let me go, for Christ’s sake? Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens?” — Biff Loman, Death of a Salesman