We can’t jar mismatched pieces, make them fit;
Too many days, months, years, already wasted.
You may have given me your face, peeled it
like pastry from your smoking skull, and pasted
it to my small ivory head instead; but you
never drew ink along the dotted line.
Years hand-picking fathers like flowers – true,
you were no daffodil, certainly not mine.
They’re calling us to boarding finally,
I leave my suitcase standing on the platform –
a twenty-one year wait or so it seems.
Like you, I won’t be back. Excuses worn.
I’ve shed that second skin; the coat I’d sewn
and stapled to my back, too small, outgrown.
Published in Parthian’s How to Exit a Burning Building