One time, by the bus stop, after school,
A kid named Bobby, tall and cruel,
Smacked my face and gave me a push
Where I blushed and bled, scabbed in a bush.

I couldn’t hear at first, except for this ringing—
Then came the other kids, in laughter, singing.
I wish you’d taught me how to deal with a punk,
But that’s not the only life course I flunked.

I wish I knew how a gentleman must dress,
But I wore what mom bought and tried my best.
Some other kid’s father taught me how to shake
A hand at first meet – a grip tight like a snake.

I liked a girl, but never knew what to say.
I won awards, longing for your “hooray.”
I was in a play doing whatever wildness suited.
I did the same drugs mom said you did.

It was always momma, Kookee, and me.
You loved the racetrack for decades, but left me at three.
All my friends were fatted with a love to claim,
And the only thing you ever gave me, Karl, was your name.

Survival meant art, school teachers, and history,
Convincing myself they’d replace your mystery.
“I love you” is a phrase you never bother say,
But thank you for your sperm– Happy Father’s Day.