When We Meet In Heaven, Dad (2)

I picture it: a convention
of like minds, congregating,
sharing, aspiring to betterment.

A conference of healing,
for the newly deceased –
like limbo, only educational.

Surprised to find you there –
you who seldom attended
any of my performances.

I’ll stifle the discomfort,
suppress doubt, cherish
the moment, except that

I know you – will catch
the gist of your duplicity,
your self-serving motivations

feel the rage intact, intent
on one final confrontation,
to track you down, and decry

your brick-wall tendencies,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs

will check the registry –
surely there is one in Heaven –
likely not find you listed there

the alias you used in life,
now redundant – will find
you under that moniker

I refused to ever pronounce;
will stand at the door of your chamber
inflated righteousness ready

to denounce you for eternity,
only… revelation will strike,
decades of wrath disintegrating

into sorrow, and as you open
that door, hesitant to receive me,
I’ll declare:  “I am sorry, Dad.

I accept you just as you are,
I just don’t want any more
distance between us.”

(When We Meet in Heaven, Dad originally appeared April, 2017.  I am submitting a revised edition here for Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt:  dirge.  A response to this poem, from my Father’s point of view, is posted on One Woman’s Quest II.)

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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

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