My Father’s routines
A poem on the spectrum
6:30 PM and the front door unlocks,
Dad’s back from the shipyard,
he will kick off his boots and put on the news.
It’s like clockwork,
the way he constructs his day.
Routines define him,
and he himself runs on military time.
You can watch him unwind,
when his perfectly planned path is blocked.
In those moments,
we were so similar and I didn’t even see it.
His routines held him together,
just as mine did.
As a child I didn’t not understand,
how alike we were.
They gave a name to my needs,
but never to his.
It was assumed he was autistic,
but never confirmed like I was.
The older I get, I am his living confirmation.
As I piece together my own autistic existence,
I bring his from the shadows.
About the Creator
Josey Pickering
Autistic, non-binary, queer horror nerd with a lot to say.
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