Fishing

I wrote this poem 3 years ago,  from a very small place within me.   The little girl who was never enough for her daddy.  I could not formerly read this aloud without quivering or welling up.  This is one of the first Augusts in which the anniversary of my father's death was just another day -- not one in which I felt guilty for not visiting his gravesite as my mother and sister do dutifully and not one in which I had to shut out feeling period in order to save myself.  I post this today from a much fuller place -- the adult woman who does not require her deceased father to have been anything other than what he was capable of and who does not require herself to be anything other than who she is.  


fishing
it is still dark out
when mommy jostles my toes
to wake me from slumber
i can feel the knot
in my belly
beginning to tighten
in anticipation
my little brain is swirling
“will i cast far enough?”
“i hope daddy’s in a good mood ”
“is he going to make me wait a long time to pee?”
i can smell the Lebanon bologna and mustard
being packed for the day’s lunches,
the odor of which brings me both
an odd comfort and acute nausea
to this day

we ride in silence
as the sun finds its way out
remnants of stale beer and cigarettes
escape from daddy’s breath,
the fumes
permeate the car
and
i just want to crawl out,
but instead get lost in my head,
staring out the window,
daydreaming
about
doing amazing cartwheels
to wow Susan Baltz
or what I am going to say
when i meet Marlo Thomas someday

we arrive at the lake
and daddy barks out
instructions for unloading
the gear
and
inevitably there’d be some
back-handed comment
about my ineptness to
not tangle fishing lines
and this is when
i would ponder
why daddy chose to adopt a girl
when he clearly wanted a boy
and wouldn’t he be
less mad if he picked a boy?

daddy puts
the orange life vest
on me
with as much tenderness
as one would tie a
bundle of old newspapers
and yet
it is the one act
that makes me
feel even remotely
cared for
“at least he doesn’t want
me to drown” is what I think to myself

i sit in my spot
on the boat
and feel the coolness of the water
and the breeze of our movement
as daddy dips each oar
in rhythmic grunts
i watch the mosquitoes dancing
on the surface
and pray that daddy keeps
rowing and that we never stop

but we do
and that means that it’s “show time”
and my every movement is
now under careful watch
and this is when I wish
i could go just be strapped to the anchor
and gently rest on the bottom
so that daddy can fish quietly
and not be bothered with the mess i’ll surely make
i am shaking
as i hold the reel
and bite my bottom lip
praying that i don’t cast into the weeds
or get my line snagged
and i press the button
to release the line
listening for the whir that daddy’s line has
and my heart beats faster and faster
“please don’t let daddy yell, please God please”

i want to know what other girls are doing
with their daddies on summer days
i want to be riding my bike
i want my daddy to hold me
i want to be anywhere but here