Paternity Test Redux

I have a father, his name is Antonio. He is in his seventies, slow to walk, and seldom drinks. I have a father, he is actually my grandfather. But this post is not for that great father. This post is for the other man, the man who calls himself a father because his pants come off and biology takes over. This is for you.

PATERNITY TEST

“You’re beautiful,” was the phrase in his electronic reply,
A revelation shaped from my centimeter sized profile picture.
My computer screen blinded by a morning August sun,
Twenty plus years of search on a social network forum.

Tears flooded my spectacles as I reread the line,
“please call, I want to know you.”

I questioned the moment,
a child searching for a biological connection,
was he only a click away?

The resemblance of my half oddly shaped nose and slight almond eyes
met the gaze of his out dated photos,
glorified snapshots of a boxing profession that never took off.

My heritage semi legitimized.

The fingers fumbled,
misdialing until I managed the correct sequence.
An awkward, “hey, how are you?” as we painfully attempted small talk.

The revelation of siblings, aunts,
and a grandmother mere minutes away,
was more than I could handle for a casual Saturday afternoon.
As conversation progressed, so too did anxiety.
A feeling of “oh shit, what did I do?” as he continued to speak.

Quick to blame a single teenage mother,
Along with a whole network of maternal kin.
He digs in to the village of family that nurtured my existence.
It would not be a “Maury” segment,
but neither would it be a sentimental “Oprah” moment.

His speech was slurred as he forgets to ask me questions.
He carried on his conversation much like he carried on his parenting,
As if I wasn’t there.
A continual dialogue of finger pointing ensues,
He says, “You need to know why I stayed away”,
Attempting to tell me who he is.

A boxer, a diabetic…an asshole