HE KNOWS WHAT HE IS BY MICHAEL LEE

 I haven’t spoken to my father since Christmas,
 when I see him now, a couple hours late with a girl
 not much older than me, a cocky rotten-toothed
 smile on his face. This is when I’m supposed to say
 I hate my father, or love him, but I can’t say how
 he’s in everything I’m asked to think about. My father
 is in the Jim Crow south, a Nazi in Germany, he is
 the fire burning in Bloody Mary’s right hand.
 My father’s in the Columbine massacre, in every
 needle shot on the street. He’s the Kennedy’s assassins.
 He’s in the Manson family. I see his swastika tattoo
 each Christmas. My father’s in me—his satanic brand.
 I’m trying not to think the things I think. My father.
 Dear God, I’m trying not to do the things I want to do
  
Michael Lee is a student attending the University of Arkansas Fort Smith majoring in History and minoring in Creative Writing.