I forgot how to breathe in the summer of two-thousand ten 

Thumbing through every repressed memory trying to recall his scent 

I have the same eyes as you and maybe the same hands 

And when Santa came, I would leave out Pepsi and Swedish Fish because the merry man was lactose intolerant, as am I 

but he told me at four that it was all lore, it was a sin. 

And he thanks the good lord for all that has been

and was he smiling down on you when you broke in? 

While you held your first-born under the chin? 

His feet did not touch the ground. 

And was God securing your heavenly home while you broke your arm from the force of the blows 

to all your children? 

I’m trying to remember your smell, but I am only re-living hell. 

Note: My father was not an alcoholic, his wrath stemmed from some deep rooted issues and the love of God. On Father’s Day of 2017 I purchased myself an apron that says “This Dad Needs a Beer.” because it feels nice to deal with trauma through poor humor, I still wear it when I cook.