No Apology.

I don't want an apology. 

I'm done feeling sorry

for myself.

I just can't stand the hatred, the rage that consumes my body.

Every time I hear your voice on the other line.

The anger that tells me to hang up.

Even though I know you just want time

with me. 

This is about the relationship you failed to hold on to.

When you'd call 'cause you needed to hear my voice

so that you'd feel like a better father.

Not even that. 

So you'd feel like a better person.

I've always wondered ... what do you know about me?

Do you know I prefer music over t.v. 

and that I don't like to travel without some sort of book with me?

Is that the sort of stuff you even care about?

I doubt

it.

This is for the money I gave to charities.

The notes they threw back in my face, with smiles.

Said they didn't want pity money, it didn't count,
wasn't worthwhile.

This is for the letters I fed to the bins.

The words they spat up, with a rough cough and green paste.
Told me that this blur of vowels and consonants 
left them with a sickening taste. 

I don't want an apology. 
I don't need one. 
What I did want was a daddy.
When I needed one.