My Second Step-Father

She told me to call him
Father,
because my real Daddy
had abandoned me
long ago.
And she said this
with her new husband
in the room.

Father
didn’t like me.
Said I didn’t know
respect,
though, to this day,
I’ve never been able
to peice together
what made up
his needed respect.

She told me to trust him,
new Father,
to uphold me and love me,
because my Daddy
obviously didn’t,
having moved away
to another state
with his new wife
and little children.

Father
said he trusted me
to not lie,
though he was always on
the alert,
sniffing, scowling,
pushing around,
to find the holes
in my truth.

She told me to pity him,
her husband,
for being cruel and mean.
It’s only because
he doesn’t like himself,
and knows he shouldn’t
do drugs
and gamble,
or lust for other women.

Father
shouted me into a corner,
when I asked for help.
Calling me stupid,
worthless,
no use to anyone,
with his eyes bulging.

I always remember the eyes.

She told me she loved him,
that Father loved me,
and that I should be
most grateful
for all the kindness
he showed me,
with a roof over my head
and food in my stomach.

So, after listening,
for six years,
and hearing the roar
of self-hate,
aimed at myself,
my siblings,
and to her as well,
by the man I had thought
to call
Father…

I packed up my bags,
and returned home
to Daddy.

Because at least,
my real dad,
was kind.