Because My Son Cannot Write This:

 

 

Do you understand

that you were

Someone who understood him?

That he stood taller

Wanted me always to send to you

The work he’d done

That when you commissioned him

And paid him for his drawings

By buying him paints and brushes

Well, he was never prouder

An eight-year-old pride

That can barely be described

 

(The bridge. The pause. This is the blank space

in our lives where you chose door number 3—

there is a simple woman there, it’s not complex

she leaves the television running, her kid throws tantrums

take her to Oprah’s couch , she’ll be fine

the air isn’t clear but it’s constant , she’s as familiar

as your mother, in fact maybe it’s her—did you notice that need?

and  you were your father for so long.)

 

FYI: We are still hiding in the forest;

there’s no road to our door;

it hurts to breathe up here;

yes, it’s that fucking clear;

we are parked in front of the fireplace in sleeping bags,

because we get weather here

surviving is our constant,

—but back to the poem…)

 

Recently, he was cleaning up his room

No new toys while the old are piled

In excavation heaps

A landfill on linoleum

My son knows the drill

He brought the thrift store bag to me

And it had everything

you ever gave him

A stuffed animal at his birth

The last happy meal toy

What was left of the dried up paints

From that moment you

Believed in him,

Showed him you understood

Him to be him.

 

And I had no words—

I’m not that kind of liar.

How can you tell a kid

Who loved somebody

He didn’t choose you?

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About Margaret Elysia Garcia

Margaret Elysia Garcia primarily writes fiction, essays and poetry from a remote corner of the Sierra Nevada. She's currently working on a non-fiction book regarding body positivity through plus-sized alternative modeling .She blogs here and at Throwing Chanclas. And is the co-founder of Pachuca Productions a Latina owned microtheatre in Plumas County, California
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