My Daddy Is In Jail
My Daddy is in jail, he says.
He is six years and six days old.
Big brown eyes, mushroom skin, trusting me.
That’s too bad, I say.
No, it’s good. He stops coloring and smiles at me.
We live in a safe house now.
We color together in silence for a few minutes.
I am sixty-eight and twenty-nine days.
Hazel eyes, mouth silent, waiting.
My dad has a car like that one, he says.
He is pointing to a muscle car on the cover of a book.
I say that’s nice.
He give me a sly sideways glance, he is still coloring.
My dad has a bucket of dollars, he reports.
That’s great! I say.
He nods.
He needs one more dollar to buy a car, he says.
I could give him a dollar, I say.
Okay, he says. We continue coloring.
My name is Peter, P E T E R he says
Spelling it out slowly, so I can catch it.
Peter, he says, satisfied.
I try not to smile, but I do.
He is helping me, concerned that I might not know how to spell.
That’s great, I say. He looks relieved.
Of course, I am not using his real name
But he is real, and his mother got beaten up by Daddy
And his Daddy is in jail. Real stuff. Not just for TV.
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