It wouldn’t have been right for my father to walk me down the aisle no matter what society dictates as the norm.
Date someone who doesn’t mind letting a little girl paint his nails or try to put his hair in pigtails.
Because when I drank it, I got far too angry.
At you. At the world.
Their children never know the touch of love, lullabies that bring peaceful sleeps. They roam escaping family, an absent figure.
You can’t go through life being drunk and stupid.
I feel that I was born to be a dad.
It’s me being mad over all the times I haven’t been able to hug him in the past six years, for the days I wish to but can’t hear his voice and all the words of advice (and probably 90% yelling) he has for me. It’s not being able to participate in Dad-Daughter brunches or dinners, or not taking screenshots of FaceTime selfies or bad Dad joke texts.
I see you looking in the mirror and all you can see are the flaws he pointed out about your hair or your skin or your eyebrows. I see you struggling to see them as features rather than flaws. I see you trying to remember the last time he made you feel beautiful and I see you trying so hard to accept yourself.
He tells me the things I need to learn in the way I need to hear it. He always tries his best to be what I need to and drive me to become better in being me or finding me.
I do love you. I know I never said that enough. Or at all, I guess. Did you really need me to? Didn’t you know? I’m sure you did, I’m sure you knew. You had to.