is your dad still mad at you,
for what you did to his car? you scratched it up
like it was meant to be hit by rocks on the way to get ice cream with your little brother.
my dad was also angry with me
whenever i refused to clean my room.
i remember his face turning purple,
his eyes bulging out like a cartoon character – 
steam might as well have blown out from his ears.

then, after some time had passed,
he would take me on a walk or a drive even when i knew how to govern the wheel,
and teach me the importance of being cleanly,
because to him, it meant that you were a nicer, much more pleasant person.
i suppose all daughters like making their fathers angry,
with their blooming adulthood.

but my dad always hugged me, and you too, after he watched how yours made
you cry into your pillow at night. he held me close
and sometimes told me
that nobody deserved me, or you, and then
he took us both for a drive and said how your eyes reminded him of his own,
and how my laugh reminded him of a tree climber’s grin.

is your dad still mad at you,
for speaking back to him? talking to him like an associate, like he’s not your boss anymore.
my dad was less angry and more shocked
that i had the guts to say whatever i needed, to protect myself from him
or anyone else. he stayed still and gave an expression of reluctance,
for he could not debate against 
the daughter of the wind.