i call my real father at work
can hear the clank and pangs of metal and concrete
the oil underneath all the fingernails
men's voices shouting loudly from a distance
almost clear, the smell of freshly cut wood.
i want to tell him that i can't write about these profound violations of war
and all the mad moments locked up underneath his skin
that make him drink too much beer
to satiate the dead bodies keeping him up through the night
that make him mean, sometimes.

i call my real father at work
which is something rare and slightly violating
and i sob into the skin of my right bicep
and try to pretend everything is okay
i say, i love you and i miss you.
and he acts gruff and unsure and pleased when he calls me his baby, and says he loves me and misses me, too.