Death Cab For Cutie ~ Styrofoam Plates

There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes; I threw them to the sea,
but a gust blew them backwards and the sting in my eyes
that you then inflicted was par for the course just as when you were living.
It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father
but the donor of seeds to a poor, single mother that would raise us alone.
We never saw the money that went down your throat
through the hole in your belly.

Thirteen years old in the suburbs of Denver,
standing in line for Thanksgiving dinner at the Catholic church.
The servers wore crosses to shield from the sufferance plaguing the others.
Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables,
charity reeks of cheap wine and pity and I'm thinking of you,
I do every year when we count all our blessings
and wonder what we're doing here.

You're a disgrace to the concept of family.
The priest won't divulge that fact in his homily
and I'll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet,
you can deck out a lie in a suit.
But I won't buy it.
I won't join the procession that's speaking their piece,
using five dollar words while praising his integrity.
Just 'cause he's gone, it doesn't change that fact:
he was bastard in life, thus a bastard in death yeah.

Mine isn't dead. Mine is still alive and living that new life with his new family. After having abandoned me as a child. After my having begged, pleaded, yelled, cried, and crawled to have him in my life. He still chose to not be there. I want to say those exact words to him. If he didn't have that new family (for ~30 years now) there is no way I would take care of his ashes for him. The crematorium could have them. I hate him.

I don't, ordinarily, don't waist a lot of time on hate. But I think in this case..... I think, now, how my life would be different had he been there. It doesn't matter. We got along fine without him. What I needed from him is to NOT have to be on WELFARE because he NEVER PAID HIS CHILD SUPPORT. I hate him.

When I went through my sobriety I went through hell. He got a few panicked calls from me. I needed someone. I needed love, I needed support. I got a call from his wife, "You can't call him when you are having a bad time, it upsets him." If he didn't want to be there for the bad he sure as hell doesn't get to be there for the good.

I really do hate him. I shouldn't have had to, in the 7th grade, write to him to remind him I existed. It had been so long since I'd heard from him that I wrote. I begged him to see me, that I was here, that I needed his presence in my life. I never asked for money from him. I showed him my last name was Murphy, I was still his daughter.

That name is the only thing I got from him. And I'm ready, now, to give it back. I'm embracing my new last name for many reasons, but it's going to be nice to cut that tie.

I fear someone in his family is going to take pity on him and invite him to the wedding. I. Will. Lose. It.

I hate him. And I think I'm ready to tell him so.

I want to be ready to just let go. To move on from him, the pain he caused me, the feelings of inadequacy he left behind. I don't want to cry anymore tears for him.

I will not be going to his funeral.