It was the night you
pulled me out of bed
to go find Mommy.
You brought me into a bar
in my pajamas, the ones with
the matching doll,
the ones I went to the hospital in.
She was there, drinking
with her friends after work,
the same place you met.
It was your day off and you were watching me,
kind of, but you’d been drinking too.
I knew I wasn’t allowed in a bar,
but what upset my heart didn’t matter to you.
Orange air from waist high, laughing then yelling,
the stomachache and chin to chest.
I went with Mom when we left, fearing the fight,
but you beat us home and got the pole
from the back door. I still don’t understand why
you tried to smash in the passenger side window,
but I’m glad Mom’s pick-up had a bench seat
so I could scramble away from my father
for the first time in my life.