How sick I get of your ghost
stirring the blood between us,
how sick of the ties
that hold me.
Father, a shrink on the highway
told me to write. To who?
I have made you up. You are
the air in my birthday balloon
the clown at our barbecue
proud patron of the bottle-o
you shape my fingers and my toes
you cast my shadow
my every look-over-the-shoulder
you carve my tombstone in womb bone.
How sick I get of my ties to you.
Let this be a letter
to the Dead Letter office
(I'm sick of your jokes).
Father, I untie you -
air rushes out
and I whoop ...
it's time to let go.
Andrew Burke's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Dear Father by Andrew Burke )
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(25 July 1956)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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