A Letter to My Biological Father


We’ve never spoken. I am unable to contact you, except by expressing what I want you to read and then broadcasting it to the widest number of people, in the hopes that you might stumble across the message, and somehow divine that it is meant for you.

You may not know I exist. There was no connection – no moment of interaction, only a vague resemblance to the unknown-I have seen at least photos of my mother. I infer you by the lack of overlap in my resemblance to her.

There’s the very real likelihood that you may be dead, or mad, or blind, or apathetic, or poor, or destructive, or imprisoned, or stalling out in the short hairs of silence, broken by the Reagan years, trapped in a coal mine, brutalized by harsh winters and sad farmers, guarding rustic bias from encroaching city folk.

There’s the doubt knowing gnaw down at raw bones, grumble pain shouldering blue stem horrors fresh from the gravy.

Which is to say, I want to say things to you I cannot articulate. I want to express the bile and shat runes to clandestine oracles of our would-have-been pathways, lurch laggard in pursuit of forgone again conclusions. I am here as a problematic event to disrupt your reflection, a thought you left unrelated. I would love to know your story, if only to have another half-truth to add to my void.

You can’t owe me one. This isn’t a warp, there will be no weft, gains, subsidies.

I struggle to even know what to mourn. There is a gap, though… and that gap into attachment, perhaps I mourn, when dreamless I sleep.

I am not your snugglepuppy, these quite lonesome years.

We are no we, you and I.

You are the removed – the un-entangled. I assume your appearance in the gap between my resemblances with my mother and her brother, in the places where I am different, where I diverge. You are a dark shadow, cast across time.