I wish I could call you.

I've written you a few times, heartfelt notes, pleading with you to get to know me, maybe show you cared, and stuck them where I knew you'd find them. And you did find them, I could tell by your eyes the next day. But you never did anything about it. So I'm just writing this one without any intent to show you. You'll probably never know how you've made me feel my entire life. But I wouldn't ever tell you, either.

I've always called you "Dad."
"Father" is too regal for someone that wears plaid shirts and jeans.
"Daddy" never felt right in my mouth, in my ears.
It's meant for other people.
For daughters that could hug their fathers freely, without it feeling awkward.
It's a name for a man that would do anything for his children.
You're here, you're around, all day everyday.
But what do I have to show for it?
At least if you'd be cruel or violent maybe I'd be less void for attention.
You're just here though.
Like someone stole your spirit.
Was it me?
Was it age?
Was it the years of labor for which you have nothing to show?
My heart tells me it's my fault. I robbed you.
I wish I could help you, but you don't want help, you don't want anything from me.
Never wanted me.
That, I can deal with...it's your fault anyway. If I'm the burden to bare then so be it.
But I've done what I could to try to be pleasant.
Even now, when every day, every cigarette, takes you farther from me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm well enough adjusted, now.
I blame myself for your dismay, but I don't cry every night for weeks on end anymore because I wanted you to act like a real father.
I got over the fact that you never wanted me and showed it well.
I got over the blank expression constantly on your face, unless there's a drink in your hand.
But I still wish I could make you half as happy as that damned bottle.
I still get angry at myself, that I wasn't enough to quit smoking for.
I still wish I'd of been worth it to you.
I still wish I could have called you "Daddy"