That’s alright, he says when I don’t want to go on the ride. You can wait down here. You don’t have to ride it if you don’t want to.
Of course, when it’s just heights he makes me go. He walks me up the old metal steps to the top of the view and lets me cling to his arm while we look at the edge.
See? He says. That’s not so bad.
It is so bad, at least to me, but I know I’m not going to fall.
I love you, dad, he says to his father.
Yeah. That’s all that comes back. Yeah.
I love you, dad, I say. I love you too, he says, and he tells me with words and hand squeezes and actions.
I’m sorry, he says too. I shouldn’t have yelled. You didn’t mean to.
It’s hard to tamp down a yell, I imagine, standing in his now-flooded bathroom. But he did anyway.
I want to go see the dinosaur park.
It’ll be hot. It’s far. It’s tedious. It’s not worth much, not if you don’t already like dinosaurs.
I’ll take you, he says. We can go together.
He brings my blog back from extinction, and doesn’t get angry with me when he has to kill his own to do it.
I have an idea, he tells me, the first shaky-steps year into coming out. We should get rainbow rolls for dinner.
He watches when I pet the soft fur of a little golden puppy. That’s no wolfhound. That’s no protector.
That’s alright, he thinks to himself, and prepares to bring the little blonde thing into the family. There’s a protector already, anyway.
That’s alright.
That’s alright again and again.
That’s alright, he says when I tearfully show him the way I’ve damaged the car and the driveway.
We can fix it.
That’s alright, he says when I tell him through glazed and tired eyes that I don’t want to do volleyball anymore. You don’t have to.
That’s alright, he says every time I fall short and panic and fail and disappoint.
I’m your dad. I’ll always love you.
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