My father is an ever-present phantom

Who poses as a poltergeist when he doesn’t get his way
Spitting words and objects through the air,
They shatter against walls
The shards explode, sending broken pieces everywhere
Slicing anything in their path
 
My father becomes transparent, opaque
A barely-present absence that lingers as the wounds heal 
and later rip themselves open when a closing door’s breeze slams it shut
The cuts bleed empty and fill a crevasse reported to be immeasurable
 
My father was once a chauffeur for famous people who have no idea how tragic his life is and was and continues to be
They would banter with him as they sat in midtown traffic,
Usually a lift from Madison Square Garden to somewhere on the breezy shores of Long Island
Awaiting lights to turn green with cars lined bumper-to-bumper
Horns honking like wild geese soaring above in their signature flying-v formation
And nowhere to go other than where their instincts guide them
The small talk never lasts
Silence befalls any real connection between the stars and the veiled underworld in which my father exists–
They think they see him, but really, he’s just a moment of belief or an absence of faith
Or a vision conjured in a sleepy, inebriated haze.
 
My father hustled this side gig to make extra money for his second family
It was just another way to pay for mistakes and to invest in first futures that were left behind
Until a soon-to-be washed-up rock star’s despair pierced the veil and frightened the ghost.
Vince Neil sat in the backseat,
His eyes locked on faraway thoughts too quick to catch
His daughter was losing a battle with a rare form of cancer. 
No child should suffer such a fate.
No money could save her.
No fame could save her.
Her father couldn’t save her.
My father couldn’t save her.
Nobody’s father could save her.
 
 
My father told me this story years later.
He said the conversation went like this:
“You got kids, man?”
“Yeah. A son and a daughter.”
“Call your daughter. Tell her you love her.”
“I will.”
 
 
My father accepted parenting advice from Vince Neil.
He called me late one night and whispered a soft, “You know I love you, right?”
I was young and didn’t understand the question.
“Sure, dad. Yeah.”
The static on the line fogged expectations of reciprocation.
Nobody’s father needs to save me.