Dreams of My Father

Or a man who looks like him. I only know I call him Daddy (as all southern women do until the day we die). In my dreams he is still alive and this is not a comfort. I am my best when tragic. Grief becomes me. Daddy is more real in death, eyes dark, undimmed by the grave, smile less sincere. Matter clings to his thick eyebrows, his mouth spits mud when he tries to talk. He is candid. He tells me he liked my sisters better than me. Most times I search for him in a crowd of counterfeit Daddies. I look for pieces of him. An elbow. Black hair on the back of a pale neck. If I find him, I will say,Is that you? I know you this time.