To my father. Not the man who raised me, but to the one who begot me; I don’t know if you’re alive or dead. I don’t know your name, or even if you’ve ever been aware of my existence. I’ve carried that knowledge like a mantle of uncertainty my entire life. I make jokes about it to mask the fact that it bothers me, but there isn’t a day where the weight of it doesn’t affect me. You are a heavy, weightless burden, bearing down in my mind and hanging over me like a cloud about to strike me down with an electric haze of “I DON’T KNOW”. It’s a little funny that I’ve never written to you before, can’t ever remember writing FOR you, either. You’re so much of a blank spot in my mind that I don’t even have a poem of ache for you. How do you describe a void? You are my emptiness. That hollow spot inside of me that I sometimes fall into, and have to blindly climb my way out of… But I think I may have just come up with a little one, just for you, entitled The Bastard Daughter’s Prayer; “My father. Who Art where ever, Hollow is your name. You’ll never come, that prayer be done, since birth as it’s been forever.”
I need to fill in the hole you’ve left inside of me. Not with drugs, or distractions, with sex or with fear, but with myself. You’re never coming. I’ll never find out who you were, you’ll always be a Shadowman in my mind. Faceless, nameless, and the source of much fear and angst. Unless I compost over all those issues and fill that hole back up myself, you’ll always be a pit-fall of self destruction for me. SO… I’m sorry, but this is goodbye to the man I’ve never met. I can’t keep trying to hold onto a shadow.
I found out who he is. I’ve found his family. Trent Hatton. My father has a name.