What My Father Doesn't Remember

He doesn’t remember a little boy sitting by a window

He doesn’t remember Sunday’s my day

Dad, what day’s my day?

Sunday’s my day

Remember?

No, of course you don’t

He can remember his childhood perfectly

And how much worse his was than mine

But my childhood escapes him

Real conveniently

Promises broken are promises in the past

But when’s the last time you called me

To see how I am?

He wanted to jump from being a kid

To being a senior citizen

So I could go from not needing him

To needing to take care of him

He don’t remember locked doors

With yelling behind it

Girlfriends down the street

With kids who looked like me

Calling my mom a bitch

Like she ain’t half of me

Then crying in a car on a dark Sunday night

Saying ‘Kid, whatever you do, don’t turn out like me’

Man, I didn’t know you could have a father

You weren’t embarrassed of

I didn’t know some kids

Had a dad they could love

My father doesn’t remember Octobers through Decembers

When Halloween trick-or-treating

Or Thanksgiving eating

Or Christmas greetings

Were all left to other people

Because he had to work

Because he got called in

Because he didn’t know what to do with me

See, he put his name on me

And after that he wanted to be free

So I let him be

What else could I do?

Fuck, I was only three

He had jobs but no money
At least none I could see
And the only job he never took
Was trying to raise me

My father doesn’t remember summer vacations

At one of his many places

Oh, this one has a pool

Hey, this one’s really cool

It’s got a fireplace

And you’ll have a room at this one

If his bullshit was a song

The chorus goes—

‘You’ll have a room at this one, kid

You’ll have a room at this one’

But two weeks later

He’d be somewhere new

And I’d have nowhere to send letters to

Or a number to call

Or anywhere at all

To place him in my head

Until the car shows up one day

And he wants to know where I’ve been

Why I haven’t called

Didn’t he give me his new address

This must be my mess

‘It’s on you, kid,’ he says

‘This one’s on you’

‘Cause he wants to have the same bad memory

His Dad had

And he doesn’t see why it’s so bad

To relive the past

Until it looks the way you want it to

‘You do you, kid

And when you have a son

He’ll do him too’

My father don’t remember

Doesn’t

Don’t

Won’t

Can’t

My father wants to think

He’s one hell of a man

He doesn’t know that everything he can’t do

I can

All the things he can’t remember

I can’t forget

And I can’t let go of them

At least—not yet

Not until I have a son

Or daughter

Or ex-wife

To leave sitting in a window

Waiting on me

See, somebody’s in charge

Of bad memories

My Dad took all of his

And he laid them on me

And now he can’t sleep nights

And his hair’s falling out

And he cries for no reason

And don’t know what that’s about

And I say ‘Maybe you remember

More than you think’

But that’s all I say

That’s all

I have

To say

But what I remember?

That’s for a whole other day