The Coup

Daddy, I killed you.
Put a gun to your head and shot you.
Blood spatter.  Brain matter. 
Took a dagger and plunged it deep
into your ribcage and watched you
bleed. 

I have killed you many times
in many different ways.
I killed you and burned you
in effigy, so I could be free
from anger, resentment, hatred, guilt.
Freedom from bondage.

You rose from the ashes,
took new form.
The frog king and his fledgling
hopping to the place of neutrality.
Acceptance – warts and all.
And there was peace throughout the land.

Uh oh.
Here we go.
Did I fuck up again?
Guns drawn, swords raised,
take your corners.
Let the battle begin.

It’s custom, you say.
There’s a bride,
there’s a groom,
his family on one side,
hers on the other,
a man of the cloth to unite
two into one.
Married, customary bliss.

You should know all about it.
You’ve tried, and tried, and tried, and tried.
Jumped back in the saddle, ready to try again.

But I am not you.
I’m not up for the dog and pony show.
I want humble simplicity.

One man.
One woman.
One child.
The spiritual union of a family.
No fuss.  No muss.
A t-shirt holy blue jean kinda deal.

My life.  My decision.
Yet somehow it’s once again
all about you.
You and your sorry disappointment.

Pa.  Papa.  Pater.  Paternal. 
Paternalism.
Take one dash of hypocrisy,
a healthy dollop of self-absorption and
a dash of arbitrary support.
Mix ‘em all up and what do you get?
“Hey, Jen.  It’s The Father.”

Tough love – hard assed and unforgiving.
I did the unthinkable.
Tough love – for hanging up the phone.
I became my own.
Tough love – for speaking up.
I made my own rules.
Tough love – for getting loud,
for getting upset.
One punishment fits all sorts of infractions.
The cold shoulder returns.

You don’t get to choose and pick
when buddy ends and daughter begins.
I’ll not grovel for table scrap attention anymore.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Oh, Daddy...
I’m through.