i can’t write the obituary
he’s not dead
he was just never here
in a way to be missed correctly

no casserole comes
no cards
no one lowers their voice
this grief has no leave to take

he gave me a surname
and called it provision
i’ve been paying it back
in a currency
that was never spent on me

i built a father
out of what i needed
now i’m taking him apart
to bury the parts
he never filled

he’ll text me on my birthday
and i’ll grieve him
while he’s left on read

the man 
who was supposed 
to stand
between me 
and the worst of it

he was the one 
i needed shelter from