Dad

Dad.

My mom loved you.

She once told me in her room,

“everyone knew I liked your dad.

And everyone knew your dad liked me.

One morning, when we were juniors,

our friends saw us talking together in front of our school,

El Paso High.

They started saying,

kiss. Kiss. KISS.

Then more students gathered round and chanted along,

KISS! KISS! KISS HER!

I was too shy to kiss him and he could tell so

your dad bravely put his arms around me and we had our first kiss.”

Dad, I love that you and my mom married on Valentine’s Day.

Your first and only son.

My mom once told me in her room,

“he didn’t wear a condom because we loved each other.

And when you were born, he loved you so much.

He was so proud to show you to everyone.”

Dad, maybe I said “dada” once.

But I never got to learn how to say, “daddy” or “papá.”

I never had the chance to learn your 1st language & tell you, “papi te amo.”

Padre

Father

It feels like my tongue is playing a cruel prank on me

when I say those words now.

Dad

That three letter word sounds so strange.

I wish you were never murdered.

I wish I knew who took your life,

but maybe it is best I do not know.

Your death certificate only tells me:

“decedent stabbed by unknown assailant” and

“stab wound to left chest involving left coronary artery”

My mom once told me in her room,

“a witch cursed our family.

That is why my dad died when I was 2 months old.

And that is why your dad died when you were 10 months old.”

When I imagine seeing you, the last few photos come to mind:

Embracing my mother as high school sweethearts.

Your El Paso High School graduation photo with her.

Holding me in front of a tree.

When I imagine listening to your voice

your involuntary silence fills my ears.

My mother’s stories is what I hear.

I love her voice and I wish I could hear yours too.

Dad, I’m writing about you, but I feel inadequate.

Isn’t a poem most worthy to write,

most honorable to read,

when a poet demonstrates masterful knowledge of their subject?

That’s what I hear. That’s what I’ve been told.

I’ll never write a poem good enough for you, Dad.

Because I never got to know you.

Your death certificate only tells me:

“AGE (In years last birthday) 20” and

“Mexican”

My mom knows you.

She once told me in her room,

“when your dad died,

the police came to our home and you were in your crib.

They told me,

a couple of men were harassing a woman

when your husband Jaime was by the El Paso Juarez border

on his way to work.

He tried to help her, but they stabbed him in the heart.

I couldn’t bear the news so I started doing heroin ever since.”

My mom was brave like you and told me the truth.

My mom loves you.

I hope you’re both happy

in heaven together.

I love you, Dad.