A Farther Father

My boyfriend's father is dying
and I hate myself when I comfort him,
hate the sound of my voice,
hate that I am in the room. I want
to remove myself entirely from this position-
from here I cannot help
either of them.

My boyfriend's father is dying
and I relate to him
in all the wrong ways:
a childhood rabbit being eaten by a fox,
the days I kept vigil by the phone
waiting for news of my sister giving birth,
a grandmother hitting her head on the slope
and never waking up—

back then my own father made the call
and woke me up from an intense dream I was
having in a different time zone, and so for days
I thought the terrible news imagined.

(Whenever my thoughts become critical
of my father, I think about this phone call
and how difficult it must have been
for him to make.)

My boyfriend's father is dying
and for months I wanted the news
to be better. When his father was well
there would be an outing
planned for him and me
to meet, and so I waited for the call
to hear of a recovery, of more
energy, and an upward turn I thought
was on the cards. The call
to pretty myself, and spend
too much time only wanting
to make my boyfriend proud.

A good impression would be great.

My boyfriend's father is dying
and my boyfriend is too brave,
too strong, you would never detect anything
was wrong, so kind you'd think
he needed nothing
more from life than what he has.

At night his dreams are black
I wipe his brow
I rub his back
I kiss his neck
I wipe his brow
His dreams are black.

My boyfriend's father is dying
and I do these tiny things
because I can't bring him back.