(After Winston Liao)


i text my dad when it snows more than an inch in my hometown,

and when there’s a flash flood, and when the weather app

claims from a distance that it’ll be more than 90°.

he then reminds me that he has a snowblower,

and that he raised me on a hill, and that house

has always had air conditioning, although he rarely uses it.
i text my dad when my grandmother says the flu is going around,

and when there’s food recalls that might affect him,

or when there is a shooting in his neighborhood

and they don’t find the killer for days.
and he does not answer, not always

not engaging in all my welfare checks, unwilling to allow me

to treat him like a child, he who spent two weeks without groceries

because he couldn’t find the time, he who spills food on himself

so often he was gifted a tide stick by the woman who broke

up with him two hours later. he who is so afraid of being alone

that he starts dating before my mother’s grave

was dedicated with a plaque, with space for him.
i text my dad when i wish i could text my mother

instead. i text my dad to not be so unmoored.

he doesn’t always answer. he wonders why

i’m so nervous all the time.