Wrongful Life Claim Against My Father

They filed his blood beneath a numbered case— the marrow went to war without a call. The VA counted cells, not what took place in basements where his stare could split the wall. The cancer knew his secrets—mutiny against Guam’s humid silence, its red debt claimed as the twenty-one guns thoomed in key. We stood. We nodded. No one cried. Not yet. There’s money now, for toxin’s wrongful death, Agent Orange crusading through his bones. But not for years of learning that a breath is held—not for the legacy of tones. They pay for what his blood became, not how it taught us all to disappear. Lie down.