Weekend Visitation

The well known purr of your car

threw the frown back to my mother’s face

but thrilled my aching heart,

expectations slowly growing.

You’d fall asleep in the TV’s light

by 3pm on Saturdays,

and I’d sneak out through the creaking door

straight through the burning gates.

I’d return home by nightfall,

small clothes covered in mud, lightly torn,

a long day fraught with danger

but it didn’t frighten me then.

Your body, most times, remained in the same place

the end credits far in the distance, now,

and dinner wouldn’t cook itself

stomach raging, tiny hands shaking

roaring through the night.

I’d return home pale most times,

doctor’s visits,

sharp scratch

like the stubble of your chin I’d miss,

deluded that you felt the same love that I held for you

my hero, the one who I held in high esteem,

my escape, a solid rock

even if its edge was too sharp,

but memory has removed the prejudice

the blindness,

and my body remembers

the pain and the fear.

Now older I can see

the hollow walls and cracking shell

the empty husk of my young self

who offered no more than love to his father

even after he left,

even when there was no food,

even after not appearing

sometimes for months at a time,

even as the drug-fuelled rages

became increasingly frequent,

until one day

there was no more.

By night, I try to forgive you

but the anger sticks for now

and it leaks into my bloodstream,

the cycle firm, glued into place.