If I look at my work through my father’s old lens,
I can only see fatal flaws.
If I look at my work, check down and not up,
I’m only fit for a crippling critique.
If I view my work through his envious look,
I can sense his blue eyes go glazed:
his look can melt my cast-iron talent
to a wobbly, kiln-broken mess.
But the lens through which he has cast his spell
has been buried five years and ten.
At what point can I say ‘enough’ to his hold,
and deny his dream-hogging blitz?
My real dad’s been dead a decade and a half.
But the inner one just can’t let go.
OK, so I’m loyal to my daddy by birth.
But there’s a time and a place for loyalty and guilt.
Instead of looking down my father’s old lens,
perhaps it’s time to write my own script.