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You befuddle, confound, and destroy, so I send you greeting cards with others’ words hoping that through the fuchsia lenses of another more sentimental fool you will realize I wish you a happy father’s day.

I buy them weeks in advance but only find the appropriate stamps on the Friday before.  The stoic, blue and brown cards meander from Charlottesville down to Richmond back up to Springfield. Maybe, you will be pleasantly surprised come Tuesday.

We really aren’t that bad any more. You tell me you love me too every time I call. And, most of the time I believe you. No longer tempted to ask about our past, I think about a future when only your ghost keeps me company on holidays, and your number is no longer listed.

I asked you when my blind Grandpa died, if he could see me now.

I wonder the same of you. I wonder the same of me. But, that wondering is less painful everyday, while yours still stabs me in places forgotten and unshielded.

Dammit, Dad, I love you.

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