My one and only public apology. Just for you, Happy Father’s Day.
That time when I was nine, and your Mercury Head dimes went missing, Granny gave ‘em to me and sent me to the store to buy cigarettes. Sorry.
That time when I was ten, and you took me to New Orleans and I accidentally wet my pants and you had to spend money you didn’t have on some new clothes for me. Sorry.
That time when I was eleven and you spent an entire day taking me to boot stores in Birmingham, and I just couldn’t find ones I liked, I knew once I found them we would just go home, and even more than I wanted boots to tuck my jeans into like one of Charlie’s Angels, I really wanted to spend the day with you. I liked a pair in the first store. Sorry.
That time I wrote my initials and drew a heart around them on the fifth wheel of your truck just after you had it greased. Sorry.
That time when I was twelve, and I needed a dress for the Valentine’s banquet and you took me to the Warrior Mercantile and the lady told you I also needed a bra. Sorry.
That time when I went to Murphy’s furniture store and picked out a recliner and had it delivered to you for Father’s Day, and you liked it so much and asked me how I paid for it and I told you I charged it to your account. Sorry.
That time when you took off work a whole week to stay with me before I had David and then I went into labor the day after you left. Sorry.
All the times you had to whip me and all the times you had to do without, so I wouldn’t have to, I guess I should be sorry for those too. I’m really more grateful than sorry.
The “good” One