How to be mad at a dying man

by Jordan Stanley

---

First, make him
my father. 
Make him the maker 
of everything I love
about myself. 
Make being his 
daughter my tagline 
and ticket to get in 
with the cashiers 
and old teachers 
in my small town. 
Turn 22. Hear 
the doctors quiet 
as the Osteo-
sarcoma hollows him
out of his chemo-
creased chair, where 
I find him working,
where he wakes up 
slurring, where I watch 
him beat death
and believe he is 
immortal. He may not be
God, but I would crucify 
myself for a miracle. 
Call them little 
heartstoppers: 
the pack of gum
in the cup holder, 
the bottles 
in his work bag. 
Give him the one thing
I can: an excuse 
when he stops
choosing me. 
Gape my mouth 
like a dumpster,
let my mother
discharge her worst 
fear into me like ether. 
My father’s lost
a foot now, 
he is learning to walk
over my mother
again. Debate: 
Do dying people deserve 
a little tempest? 
Is it wrong to dream
of higher ground? 
Ignore the answer. 
Blot the small cut 
on his forehead 
from after the DUI, 
minutes before
Mom gets home. 
Forget to hug him 
when he leaves
for the hospital
one last time
on Easter morning. 
Realize through fear
of loss clearing
like overcast clouds, 
I was not allowed
to be mad 
at a dying man, 
but I was 
always a daughter 
who raged—
so I’m mad 
I understood him 
better than I knew him. 
I’m mad outsiders
revered his brave
while I held
the secret 
of his broken. 
I’m mad he feared
becoming his father 
while I became 
mine. I’m mad 
his phantom
limb was the ghost 
telling me I still had
a father.
But if I let myself 
see him
as a man who did
his very best, 
I’d want to forgive
him for everything, 
and I’d be mad
at myself,  
I get mad
at myself, 
I get 
so 
fucking
mad.

---

Jordan Stanley (they/them) is a queer poet and content writer who performs at open mics across Los Angeles where they now live. You can read their work on South Broadway Ghost Society.