It’s Father’s Day, and I procrastinate
calling you, my father,
whom I love dearly, distant. 

Because I write,
one would think that I am good

at articulation–making myself clear. 

Tomorrow I will neat the gap

with my inadequate words
and hope you understand.

I write, thankful for the blank page,
how it is both a lock and a key. 
How it allows me to say, here I am.