the half breed speaks to his dying father

you never told me
how you met mom, why you married,
why you won’t tell me the date
you were married.

(oh, i think i can guess. but i’ll never
know for sure if you don’t say it.
and i don’t care, by the way. the way i see it
once you’re here, you’re here,

and it doesn’t matter much
what others call you because
you’re a bastard sometimes
no matter who you are most of the time.)

i grew up smart, and i was cool, i was everything
except what i wanted to be. i wanted
the stereotype — the feathers, the stern and stolid face.
then i gave up and tried to be you, and all i want now

is to know
at last
who you thought
i was.

what did you call me on the day I was born?
did you whisper
a potent name in my ear
that i never remembered, or that

you never said out loud again? should i be
thanking you or shaking you for the name? will it
kill me or make me feel better than i’ve ever felt?
did my fantasy have a root?

come on, dad. spit it out
if you know what my life
meant to you.
give me my footing before you go.