My Father

He used to laugh when
the tent collapsed on us in
a torrential rainstorm,
and watch with amused interest
when the flames from the fire
licked our young hands
as we tried to cook pancakes
or eggs in a tiny frying pan.
Better than eating cereal
that had been in his trunk
for two years since the last time
he dragged us on a summer
vacation to somewhere we never
wanted to go.
This was the man who knew about
the murder of two young girls,
and maybe participated, who
concealed evidence at the very least.
The man who always called us
spoiled American brats, even though
we had nothing.
All the extra money was used to
satisfy his desires.
This man would have been 90 today.
Thankfully he left us in peace
20 years ago.
I sure don’t miss him.