Father Figures Are Better Than Dad Bods
When I was old enough to ask how old I was
my father asked, What’s twelve divided by four?
It’s simple, son, just lithium’s atomic core.
Pretend it’s a game, Newton’s laws and
however many of those there were.
But no school talk at the dinner table
that’s when Mom and Dad fight
because he’s had too much to drink
and he’s going on about how he would win
a girlfriend in this day, in the USA.
He says I can speak English and
my family is not poor
so it should be much easier
and anybody in my position
would do the same.
He’s always saying I’m too skinny
Asking why don’t I eat more.
Grandma feeds me until I throw up,
green beens all over the kitchen floor.
She gets down on old knees to clean it up.
He says, Eat whatever you want, ice cream, burgers,
just put it on and stop looking so weak.
I Wanted to Win but I Wanted Them to Win and Be a Part of It As Well
I’ve seen Michael Jordan cry three times
which is three times more than I’ve seen
my father cry, the first time was in 2009
during MJ’s Hall of Fame induction when
everyone claimed him what he already knew
he was, the greatest ever, but recognitions
from peers and inspirations alike count more
than accolades, like saying I’m just honored
to be nominated, he understood the moment
and I understand the emotion. Scottie Pippen
and the others just called him an asshole and
MJ says “I’m only doing it because it is
who I am. That’s how I play the game.”
That’s strike three after the Kobe eulogy,
but I get what he’s saying. It’s what I’ll tell my dad
when he reads what I’ve written, the shame I
stapled to our name. I promised him a physical copy
published with prize stamps on the cover, but
I fail my class and the professor wants to talk
so I come clean. You must know I’ve been struggling,
but I’m feeling better than ever and you won’t meet
a better writer. The professor says feeling better
sometimes feels like doing cocaine.
I don’t ask what he means.
My father once said I love you accidentally
but I don’t think he remembers, and that’s okay.
He was a little drunk at the end of the call and
it slips out. Like the first woman saying it to me
while falling asleep, giving me her extra key.
I lock the door as I leave. Jordan cried when
he won his first trophy, father in the corner.
He thinks, Let him learn what this feels like.
Matthew Zhao is currently a PhD student at Florida State University. His first poetry collection, King of Song, has been a finalist in the National Poetry Series, a semifinalist in the Word Works Washington Prize, Longleaf Press Book Prize, and Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize, and long listed in the Lost Horse Press Idaho Prize. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Mississippi Review, swamp pink, Four Way Review, Frontier Poetry, Summerset Review, Indianapolis Review, Impossible Task, Shade Journal, BoomerLitMag, and Santa Barbara Literary Journal.