A Poem About My Dad

I’m trying to write a poem about my dad Which is weird because all I want to say about him is the things he’d done bad. Then there’s the whole problem with this rhyme scheme... I’m not actually sure what I’m doing. My dad wasn’t home much, but he kept a roof over our heads That’s cool, I guess I don’t much like the idea of being dead. I’m a little conflicted still, though He was sometimes a jerk but an expert at pulling splinters out of toes. I guess you can make bad decisions but be a good person Yet sometimes I don’t answer his calls just to hurt him. It’s my own loss though, If I was nice he’d probably pay child support and we’d be rolling in dough. Not really, but it’s nice to dream! I wonder if he ever reflects on life’s schemes His kids live 210 miles away He’s lucky if he gets two of us on the phone on the same day. He’s different now, which is kind of nice. I’m pretty sure sometimes his attempts at reconciliation are aided by online forums for advice... I don’t care, really. I don’t like to wear dresses that are frilly! There goes that rhyme pattern, Trapping me in a stanza with words that far from flatter. Where was I again? Oh yes! My Father! How could the poem get any odder? My dad wasn’t there before, and he’s trying now It doesn’t matter how often or even how. He’s a dad and he wasn’t swinging so good while we ran to our adolescent first base But time heals all wounds, and sometimes our greatest savior is space. I do love my dad, even though he’s far from perfect. He’s bipolar and can have the emotional capacity of a brick. He’s trying, and I know now that’s what matters. Maybe this fathers day, instead of missing his calls, I’ll send him some flowers?