Anger

I reflect

on what’s coming;

the funeral.

I remember

when I was made

to feel badly

by my father’s other

that my mother

had bought a car.

That child

support

money had bought a car.

Which was false,

but it didn’t matter.

I was made

to feel badly.

That I should

be held responsible

for being born.

That I was a burden.

Who says that to a child?

To me?

I was made

to feel badly

that I had to leave

Christmas early.

That it was

my fault

that my family was broken.

“I wish you would stay.”

I was emplored

as if I could do anything

but feel badly.

I remember

calling

my father

and telling him that my roommate

couldn’t make rent,

and that I couldn’t cover it

and would be evicted;

no place to go.

“I’ll get back to you.”

I was made

to feel badly

for my roommates poor budgeting.

“No can do.” The decision

made by the other,

obviously

without fight.

I guess

I’ll just get evicted.

I remember breaking

up with a girl

I was living with.

I asked to stay

with my father

until I found a new place;

a couple of weeks at most.

One day

I stayed home from work,

sick.

I sat at the office computer

and saw a chat open

between my father

and the other;

odd.

It was live.

She told him,

“He hasn’t even said thank you for staying here.”

I was pretty sure

I had,

but

being self-reflective

and not a fucking asshole,

I immediately went to her office

and told her,

“Thank you

for letting me stay here for a few days.

I feel badly

if I haven’t said it.”

Seemed fine enough to me.

And I was sincerely grateful.

I went back to the

office computer.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM”

“I WANT HIM OUT OF HERE TONIGHT”

Was all she said to my father.

That night

I was made

to feel badly

that I had lingered too long.

And I left.

I remember

my father calling from Colombia,

“We’re adopting a girl.”

First I’d heard of it.

Now estranged,

as intentional as any of the rest of it.

I remember

my father leaving

Colorado

without telling me.

And I remember

writing

grandma.

Telling her that I no longer felt

a part of the family.

That my father’s other

had excised me.

And that I didn’t know what to do.

I received no support

from anyone,

save the useless

murmurings,

“Your letter made me sad.

I wish you would get along.”

As if that were somehow

my choice.

Then no more.

Instead I chose

another path

where no longer

I was made

to feel badly.

Voluntary exile.

Complete disassociation

from expectation.

“Call more, sometime.”

I’d be advised;

commanded;

attempted

to be made

to feel badly.

But now

no more.

Replaced instead

with anger.

Anger that I,

as a child

should ever

have been made

to feel badly.

Barely restrained rage

takes the place

of those attempts

at guilt.

I’ve grown

too strong

in my knowing

I was actually made

to feel love.

And I do,

and I feel not

for those ichor-hearted others.

But now I do feel

anger;

the impending funeral

looms.

A ravageous plow

tills my past,

unearthing calcified

failures done to me;

long buried.

I should like

to throw them

hard,

bone splintering

and bloody

to their owners.

“Remember,”

I’d whisper,

“this?”

Anger unbound

and unbridled

and unrestrained

and unrelenting

I hurl

those memories,

to scar.

Grandma’s death

rains clouds

of unresolved daggers,

piercing

all the things she did not know,

but never asked.

I’ll allow this

until it is over.

And I will never

return to the farm.