One might ask, what makes a father?

I care nothing for the sperm I shed

Yet when sperm, united with an egg

A human is made, nurtured by the female.

I can understand the hormones of the woman.

Men however are not physically joined to the new life.

I don’t understand the connection.

At times, I feel envy for fathers that feel

the link that joins the generations.

The feeling of being a father,

The protective urge, the pride.

Then, I think of my dad.

We were never close.

I longed for connection

for him to love me as a father, yet..

He moved on, tossing us aside.

divorced from each other, us…

I hoped that one day, some day,

in some distant future,

he would seek me out,

and give me his blessing

That day never came, never will come.

Death took him without a word

A void left in a space meant to be filled.

But as a man, wondering about my own spilled sperm

Does biology owe someone love?

Should any dad be expected to feel

what I’ve never felt myself?

I’ve tried to come to terms with this mystery

Whether there’s more to biology,

or something of spirit?

I feel pain inside for something missing.

A void that can’t be filled.

Like a black hole, greedy, wanting,

cold like a vampire.

I’ve poked fun, disavowed those who have what I lack.

I, the great contrarian, in my pain,

romantically embrace depression like a lover.

Denied the rites of passage of what it is to be a man.

Delayed, juvenile, I enter the latter half of my life

feeling like a stunted tree, a bonsai perhaps.

Deprived of that which brings nourishment.

Never reaching my full potential.

I trimmed and plucked opportunities to grow,

with scissors of stubborn pride.

My roots, clinging to shallow barren soil

of some distant past.

I’ve carefully shaped my life,

into a tiny vision of a man.