Daddy, I’m Fine
after Sinéad O’Connor
I have not done me
well
you found the ipecac
I was a picture torn
not your little girl
locked in early morning shame Jesus
Mary Joseph’s inside-out girl
with my hair tied back and my gray
cotton sweats
hands hungry for yours to squeeze
three times I Love You
during Mass
No I didn’t do me
well
family therapy at the EDU
I wanted you
to know I could
not do
anymore Daddy
you were bounce a quarter on my bed
I was loose unmade
sleeves inverted
neck holes wide pants legs
twisted sock
caught
lint trap felt skirt too short
in Velcro call to boys
with my hair tied back and my gray
cotton sweats
hands hungry for yours to squeeze
three times I Love You
during Mass
frenetic you
tried to fold
unmatched corners—too
sensitive
I was a picture torn
not your little girl
Daddy my monarch my king
I believed you
wanted me numb neat
running to jump into your arms
at 5:00 arrivals home
but I was too
useless unlocked
right-side-out girl
with my hair tied back and my gray
cotton sweats
hands hungry for yours to squeeze
three times I Love You
during Mass
Daddy I’m Fine Daddy
Jesus
I loved you
On Being Encouraged to Take that Love Language Quiz, I Pass Knowing
mine are the opposite of media
profiting from images of children
collapsed in Palestinian grief
for the 2024 World Press Photo Prize;
none of my love languages
include the Associated Press photograph
of a woman’s broken body
hurled across the bed of a Hamas truck;
I cannot comprehend the words
of an NFL kicker to female graduates
claiming life begins at motherhood and
ends at dangerous gender ideologies;
I refuse to translate excuses
from a former lover who rejected
the likes of me for fear his aging mother
might be embarrassed at church.
Who could understand the tongue
of husband and me—lacking affirmation,
acts of service, gifts, and quality time,
loveless worlds so out of touch?
No More
I fucking hate seeing Larry Bird doing a commercial for insurance, making a fool of himself swinging some racket at that creepy guy in the mayhem All-State spots.
The hick from French lick is arguably the best basketball player of all time. But millions of people will watch his legs drip down from the phony attic set like a desperate clown begging for tips at a backwoods birthday party.
I fucking hate seeing Elton John doing a commercial for Uber Eats. Lil Nas X or not. He’s riding a toy rocket and excited about Japanese sushi with a jiggly cheesecake.
Reduced to a red and purple sweatsuit needing a spare pound and yet five Grammys, two Academy Awards, two Golden Globes, and a Tony. This glam rock god will be remembered for straddling a coin-operated kiddie ride in front of a masonry-style fireplace.
I fucking hate seeing my ex sleeping on the floor of our walk-in closet, blurring the boundaries with a feral mother cat nursing her five newborn kittens.
Give this man a gym and a field — the sky’s the limit. Before losing his job, he guided every team he ever coached into the incredibly competitive CIF basketball playoffs. Now our bedroom curls into defeat with fetal intensity only an empire, or a marriage, can know.
Candice M. Kelsey is a poet, essayist, and educator living in both Los Angeles and Georgia. A finalist for a Best Microfiction 2023, she is the author of seven books; her latest chapbook POSTCARDS from the MASTHEAD has just been released with boats against the current. She mentors an incarcerated writer through PEN America and reads for The Los Angeles Review. Please find her at https://www.
