What I Want

I want my mother to say sorry
for the aluminum bat she shouldered
the night before father's day

and for blaming me for her broken nail,
the bleeding skin underneath.

I want my father to rethink whom he tells
to act their age. I wanted my father

to stop drinking, to stop smoking, to stop
speeding off in his lunula-white Escort —
the pink design of squares a blur
of fingers — every time mother screamed
about the dragon's lair of dirty dishes.

I want him to apologize for my asthma,
for his cold shoulder as mine smelted
with a bruise. I remember

those strawberry-red condoms I found
when I cleaned the car; zip-lipped,
I never told her. I found your poem

while scouring your desk: petite Filipino wife,
the army, Lupang Hinirang. It was next to the book
on infidelity. I want you to rethink leaving.

You've scarred every Christmas; it's now
an anniversary of your departure
instead of Christ's coming. I want

my brother back, the brother I raised —
the son you wanted mother to abort.

I want a thank you
for everything I did that you should've,
for those Saturdays I declined every invitation

so mother could gossip
at the house parties; so you could sleep
like you always did, my brother
screaming for your attention. You were dead.

I want clichés to hold meaning
because no one takes "you were dead"
seriously. Maybe that's why you now sleep

with that Cuban woman in your new marriage
in Florida: the psychologist, animal-lover,
bitch. She says He's just an angry person.

and you believe her. He's a lost soul,
lost cause, lost son.
and you nod like born again Christians at a sermon,
bored. I still haven't given it

to you: the card I made that morning.
Happy Father's Day! it says, barely legible,
with heart-balloons, smiling
stars, confetti. You should've seen it, Dad,
you would've loved it.