On Papi You can have a father who lives with you. Who every day eats at the table and watches TV in the living room and snores through the whole night and grunts about the bills, or the weather, or your brother’s straight As. You can have a father who works for Transit Authority, and reads El Listín Diario, and calls back to the island every couple of months to speak to Primo So-and-So. You can have a father who, if people asked, you had to say lived with you. You have to say is around. But even as he brushes by you on the way to the bathroom he could be gone as anybody. Just because your
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STOP IM GONNA CRY
