Things I Never Said to My Father

Kendra Mills

In August, the fairground still teems

with wayward children

and blue smoke

and great shouts of living,

haunting me

because everyone knows your name.

My name too, but don’t worry—

I like being your daughter

and this place echoes of you.

This week, our farmer’s market neighbor,

of Indian Head coins

and blue-boxed, dusty potatoes,

gave me black eyed susans—

they’re in the pitcher

we used when you gave us lilacs,

white and purple,

which smelled like nothing but bliss.

By the way, butterfly bush is still

one of my favorite flowers,

I’ve never found anything that smells so good.

I don’t think you ever read my poetry

and I wish you could have,

because I’m only getting better,

as a poet,

and a person too,

I like to think.

You knew me best at four,

when I had dandelion fluff for hair

and smiles that split my face open,

like a tomato in the rain.

I’m proud that you learned

to use the computer

but more importantly, I’m sorry

I only emailed you

in the month before you died.

It wasn’t hard

and I should have done it sooner.