The dad in me

I feel like my dad when I pull up my sweater to tuck in my undershirt.
The same way he used to before church
And family gatherings.
I feel like him when I lean over the steering wheel during long drives,
My mom’s fingers scratching his back as he stretched.
I feel like him when I play Tetris with furniture while packing a car.
Or when I pull my wallet out of my back pocket.
I feel like him when tensions rise as I run late,
Searching for green lights.
I feel like him when I lay on the living room floor,
Sweat dripping from my brow,
Cut blades of grass stuck to my ankles.
I feel like him when I can’t express anger.
Or when I feel like someone might be taking advantage of me.
I feel his eyes roll in my head when I’m victim to unnecessary rules,
And his heavy breath falls from my lungs.
I feel like him when I toss cereal into my mouth,
Crunching too loudly,
Like he did on mornings I wanted to avoid before going to high school.
I feel like him when I talk about beer,
Or laugh at my own joke.
But I do not feel like him when I sit in a brand new car.
I like things that are used.
He likes brand new.
And maybe my rightful ways are just a new version of his planned out days.
I don’t like time constraints.
But I need them in order to get anything done.
And I’m finally done trying to convince myself I am a lot different than my parents.
Because,
Truthfully,
I’m more like both of them than anyone else.

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