he was a good man

why don't you hate your father,
my therapist
asks me, stopping me in mid sentence
as I tell her again
about the time my mother forgot
my birthday.
my father, what does he have
to do with anything, I blurt out,
turning my head
to look at her as I lie
prone on the velvet couch.
think about it, she says,
staring at her cell phone,
and texting.
well, I tell her. sure, he drank
a little, womanized,
occasionally beat
my mother and pulled her hair,
and yes he left seven kids in
the lurch when he ran off with
my mother's best friend,
the avon lady,
but for the most part
he worked hard
and had a great sense of humor.
go on she says, clucking her
tongue, go on, tell me more
about daddy.
look, I don't like where this
session is going, and you're
not really paying attention to me
anyway with that damn phone.
okay, okay, i'm sorry, she says,
snapping the phone shut.
i'm done, I was just texting my
friend Marsha, we were talking
about our patients and how
crazy they are. but i'm done.
go on now.
you were talking about your
daddy. he was a good man?