My father writes me letters, and whenever
I see him, he shows me the pages

to prove what will be said
after he’s dead. Only by him,
the unarguable-self my father
chooses to leave me. Not the black locust

I know and watch hitchhike around
convincing himself he wasn’t at fault
abandoning his children. Now evicted
from his parents’ attic he’s bending

and then broken, not enough self to repair.