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Ricardo Ramos is a Politics and Sociology double-major.
Dad can we stop, it's Friday.
Friday was donut day.
Dad, please today was stressful.
Second grade was hard.
One black hot coffee and one—
If he dies, I don’t get a donut.
bowtie donut, please.
I’m too much of a man to miss my Dad.
Dad, why is your skin falling off?
My privileged hands can’t take out the trash on time.
His hands were always dry when he came home.
When I’m home I deserve rest.
After each life he aided he cleaned his hands.
The smell of Johnson and Johnson on his skin is irritating.
His coarse hands built my life.
But I can’t build his office chairs without rolling my eyes.
Dad, what do you want for your birthday?
He used to see olive green Jeeps imagining they were his.
He never asked for it. I could never quite afford it as a kid.
His olive green leather boots reeked of dead grass.
I remember wondering why he mowed the grass on his birthday
His stubborn. I get it from him. Father stubbornly in love.
“Son stubborn.”
Maybe if I can afford the Jeep, then I can show him love.
He used to say:
“All I want is a hug.”
The bowtie donut costs twice as much.
I got a text from Mom.
I thought he didn’t know.
It looks like your Dad has cancer.
Today, I think he knew.
He didn’t want me to tell you, you're stressed with school.
He bought it for me.
I never cried about it. I never really thought about it.
He never told me that he knew the cost of the Bowtie donut.
It was hard to pray. If I ask for help then it’s real. My siblings didn’t talk about it. My Dad didn’t
talk about it. I threatened God. If you take him then you’re not real. He didn’t kill him. How do I
cope with a death that didn’t happen? Maybe now I’ll order the regular donut.
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