Fear of Water

As we waded in the deep end, my father would pretend to drop me,

smiled when I squealed, my small arms gripping his neck.

He rowed the boat too fast for me to catch up, my singsong teenaged

call of Da-a-ad loud enough for campers to hear.

All action would stop if he touched his belt, a threat he didn’t follow through on,

I would shake and cry, so he never needed to.

Once I was old enough to be a friend, peer, drinking buddy, he was hurt

when I expected only food and shelter, the occasional winter coat.

All those scares piled between us, I couldn’t go to him for advice or counsel -

my confusing attraction to girls, desperate need for parenting.

When I left home, he walked me through the airport, bought me

a ginger ale while we waited at the gate.

I said goodbye between breathing out and in, tears filled his eyes

but nothing ever spilled over, caught in shallow stillness.