As a father he didn’t hate you,
. he was kept from seeing you.
Pushed so far away that any attempt,
. and its awkwardness,
was considered tyranny.
His name became like mud, ‘
. though his only crime was acting on his insecurities;
. left alone to filter his own anxieties.
He never wanted to leave you,
. tried his best to keep you,
. but fell on his knees because of his own weaknesses.
His past was never even,
. because of that he struggled to be someone you could believe in.
That made knowing him difficult,
. and boundaries hard to fault.
He failed to write, to speak, even sigh with you
. because for most of his life,
. his father had failed him too.
He hardly knew his mother,
. became an outlaw in his late teens.
. spoke little of either,
. and kept his grief even closer.
He wasn’t perfect, masked his tears with pride,
. the evidence of which is still not far from our eyes.
. He let his brokenness break others,
yet, his torn behaviour never watered-down his broken love for you.
Artwork: Rembrandt, 1665, ‘Prodigal Son‘