My father: Absent but always present
My father, who is never here, gifted me his hands - but not what was in them.
My father, who is hardly ever here,
Lines his walls with books
As though to prevent them from falling in.
The mismatched clothes he likes to wear,
They smell like thoughts
Of pine trees and topological functions.
My father, whenever he is here,
Lends me his helpless traits.
And I shelve them obediently, my walls mere imitations.
My father, when he goes anywhere,
Carries his roots with him
In the tilt of his head, in the clearing of his throat.
My father, who is never here,
Gifted me his hands -
But not what was in them.
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