My Father Recovering

The thudding of my father’s footsteps
reaches the tiles of our bathroom floor like
webbed feet slapping land. My feet make
their way from under suffocating blankets
that my father used to pass out on after long
nights of chugging six cans of Bud Lights.
The breeze slithers up my legs, making
the tiny black hairs sprout upwards.

The last time it was this cold, my father’s fists
were on my body, hard and made for working
with heaviness, leaving black and blue
marks that reminded me how I always
needed to be a good girl. I’d touch them,
stings pulsating throughout my body. He’d leave the
same reminders on my mother who
left to work all day while my father
wasted his life away at home.

My father started going to church, telling me
that God was going to change everything.

He shows his yellow-tinted teeth through
a smile I had been praying for.
Go back to sleep or watch cartoons
if you’d like. He tells me as he
brushes his teeth and puts on
his sweaty work clothes. My
father’s body no longer sweaty, eyes
no longer red, no longer perfumed
with the strong smell of alcohol.
My father gets ready for his first job as I
am watching the early morning cartoons.
He checks the time, and kisses my cheek.
My small body shakes, pulls away from
my father’s lips, and begs me to
go back under the sheets.