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.