【Written by Sammi Bray】

Since I was born, you were not there. 

My mother alone  

just finished with labor, 

a toddler in one arm, a newborn on the other 

while your debt swallowed us- 

Race tracks and beer bottles. 

A second mortgage on the house she bought. 

We used to have one thing in common, 

adding mile after mile to ugly sneakers,  

tan lines from thick watches, and bloody heels. 

I think now, What were you running from?  

What was I running from? 

We follow you secretly as you drive to a package store. 

This is four months sober? 

AA chips mixed with ounce-sized bottles of vodka and gin.  

Is it wrong that I envy your childhood? 

At seventeen your father let you be- 

Death tends to come with this side effect. 

Six feet of dirt between us might be easier. 

We clean out the cabinets of your mother’s apartment, 

small bottles fill large trash bags, 

aluminum beer cans line the freezer. 

The phone rings and rings and I think 

I hate him- 

The machine reminds me: you are unavailable 

and I throw the phone, leaving a small crater in the wall. 

At night when I cannot sleep, 

I trace the smooth dent in regret. 

Text messages ignored 

All As on my report card!- 

A month later 

you send back one of your irrelevant jokes. 

I silence my notifications,  

cry until my face burns red and my throat aches.  

I was and I am a child, your child. 

You have never been a parent. 

In the summer, 

you move away without telling your child. 

The letter says: 

Change of address. 

You told my brother you were waiting for your conservator to bring furniture 

to share the news, 

but the photos you sent to him suggest you are just fine.  

When I was a child, 

I ached for you to move, to be in a place where I could see you. 

Now you have without telling me. 

I move to college without sending you a forwarding address.