Sometimes I forgot my father was the way he was
and I smiled when I saw him,
when he gave me dinner money
or nodded at good grades.
Some Sundays when my father roasted chicken
I’d forget whatever had happened on Saturday night
or think it hadn’t been him at all,
that I’d made a mistake in my remembering.
Sometimes I held on to the nice things because the horrible
seemed impossible.
Sometimes I forgot my father was the way he was
and that’s why I loved him.