Melina Lowe

An Imperfect Father

I would recognize the scribble on the page before me anywhere. We hadn’t spoken in over a decade, but I felt the same shiver down my spine seeing my father’s words sprawled in front of me as the day I left. I slumped into my brown leather couch with the little black notebook that I received in the mail earlier today. The notebook housed a lengthy letter from the man that walked out on my mother and I when I was a child. I shakily read: