Washing Palms

When the junkies my father sold crack to got too close to me, he told them to back up six dicks’ lengths. This is the man who when I was seven caught me under the bed crying and said: Save those tears. You’ll need them later. The man who told me he smoked crack because he liked it, the man sitting on his couch now watching the History Channel, scratching the nub beneath his knee where his leg used to be, gumming plums, his false teeth soaking in vinegar on the table. I’m sitting across the room trying to conjure each version he’s shown of himself, trying to lie in water warm enough to soak away the switch he hit me with. To help me summon love for the man who just asked me if he can borrow 200 dollars, the man who once told me: Wish in one hand, then shit in the other,and see which one fills up the quickest.