In my pocket, I keep regrets.
Now and then, I take them out,
hold them in my hand,
and I look at them.
Their edges are sharp.
They cut deep and leave scars.
Constantly reminding me
I failed to see
that though you seemed stronger,
you hid a fragile heart of glass,
under your armor of anger.
It’s almost Father’s Day, and every time that day would come around, I’d vacillate and wonder if I should call my dad. We’ve always had a tumultuous relationship, sprung from being so much alike, in so many ways. It’s strange how most children would never admit that to look at their parent, they could also see a part of themselves. I remember saying to myself over and over that I would not, could not ever be like him. He passed away last April, and having heard stories about him through the eyes of relatives and close friends, it is only now I can accept the fact that my dad and I were more similar than we were different.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I see you in me. Thank you.
Poet Rummager 
I love this poem… So cleverly written ❤
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Thanks Deanne. I am reading your poems and love your positive outlook! Peace.
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Wish I’d found this earlier. Much earlier.
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Lol. Why earlier?
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Because earlier is better than later. Reminded me of my dad.
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Thank you so.much Rose for leading me to this poem. such a sweet bitter poem for your dad. and while it is true that we despise them for being so ridiculously strict sometimes. ..but at the end of the day they only wants the best for us..
and when we became parents ourselves we begun to realize we are our own parents now
..
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Thanks Mich. You nailed it!
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