I come to you tonight
bearing scars freshly incurred
when newfound respect for my heretofore nearly-dead father
wrenched itself through my hard-candy shell
and gasped a shocking breath:
the first it’s taken in a long, long time.

Here are my scars:
Streaks of oil paint.
A strange, stubborn whiteness
staining my face, my hands, my hair.

My father is a painter.
He used to be a carpenter.
For a while he was unemployed
and I simply thought he was just
a stupid, lazy fuck.

Now that my perception has begun to change,
I realize maybe there was just too much pressure
in being a carpenter
named Joseph.

He began today’s painting lesson
by holding up a wet sponge
and showing me how to squeeze it.

A painful fury soaked my heart,
leaked out in the form of words,
as I took in his lesson of the sponge.

But later
as Dad and I painted
I silently apologized to him
for so often losing my temper like that.
I need to remember his leaving wasn’t his choice
sixteen years ago
and I’m sure he’d know
I know how to work a sponge, and more
if he didn’t go away.

And for the rest of the day,
we absorbed droplets of each other’s lives
and it was no longer a chore
to paint with my father
in the kitchen
of a home
belonging to a hardworking man and his pregnant, beautiful wife.

I hope this paint takes its
time to wash away,
because while it is there:
Joseph is a carpenter again
and we’re building something beautiful
like my new white scars.