I miss him when the sun is out
The heat makes my skin feel claustrophobic and tight
A sheen of sweat over my brows.
He always loved the summer
And even when the days were hazy and he drank too much
He would smile at me
Asking me if I was doing God's work
I don't bother telling him I've stopped praying because I never got an answer for why
My love was greedy and wandered towards men and women
Or why Uncle Jeff died or
Why he was so angry at me
God and I aren't friends
We are distant relatives and he always misses my goddamn calls
What a loser
He can't even bother to leave a message.
When he died, my anger towards deities warped into something darker
My grief is like sticky toffee
It gets all over my furniture and clothes
My hands are covered in tar- like guilt
I'm reminded of him when I go to work
"The Lord's work", as he says
But what has the Lord ever done for me?
When has the Lord ever granted me mercy?
I look at his ashes on my table and I wonder
If God exists, why aren't you here?
The question is a constant ring in my ears.
I'm jealous of my friends' beliefs
The way they can call God like they're long lost friends
His response is a phone call while he ghosted me so many times
I wonder if my Dad is talking to God
Maybe they're sharing a beer
Talking about the past
Maybe someday, I'll see them
My faith restored
