"my father"

I was reading a poem

by a son

talking about his father

and he used the exact phrase:

"my father"

I smiled as he held this imaginary

conversation with "my father"

one very similar to my own

imaginary conversations

in which I am always the son

and he is always "my father'

until today, until this moment

reading this poem;

and it occurred to me

as if for the first time

and perhaps it was for the

first time

fifteen years hence

that in this narrative

of father and son

I felt crowded

almost embarrassed

claustrophobic even

and somewhat ashamed

and resentful

that a poem had to tell me

there was another son

who had a "my father"

and what I thought was mine

a unique duet

stories strung together

like the fish

we never caught

of the many games

played but

never watched

of the times I

tucked myself in

because bedtime

was not

2:30am

of what was clear

seemed not simple;

his anger, voiced

yet unknown

my pain, silent

and growing

was just my hubris

and self-centered nature

revolving

around

the ghost of a child

fifteen years a father

with a son who probably

thinks of me

as his

"my father"