subject line: hear me.

 

Little rock, arkansas.

I am your own flesh and blood but I’m not enough for you. Where were you when I had that minuscule line in the school play? I looked for your face in a sea of proud parents but it wasn’t there. Where were you when I gave that speech at my high-school graduation? I spent weeks writing and rewriting those four minutes of nervous nostalgia, but you couldn’t spare the time. Where were you when I moved into college for the first time? It crushed me to see the other dads carrying their daughters’ boxes into their tiny dorms when my own father didn’t care enough to say goodbye. Everyone keeps telling me that it’s not my fault that I have an asshole for a father. It feels like my fault. Why am I not enough for you? I’m screaming out but you don’t seem to hear me. I just want you to listen. Tell me, Dad, why is your daughter not enough for you?