I love you
with a painful kind
of love,
an ache that resonates
like a finger passing over an
old scar-
the flesh is numb, 
and the memory sears.

I love you 
with a forgiving kind 
of love,
knotted tightly in my stomach,
making it impossible to relax in your presence,
like a punch
in the gut –
the flesh throbs
and the memory wounds.

I love you
with a sad kind 
of love,
a permanent mourning,
like someone grieving,
forever trapped in a 
funeral home – 
the flesh wears black cloth,
and the memory darkens.

I love you, Dad,
with a complicated kind
of love.

I’ll take it.