Girl

He calls me "Girl"
and absorbs my sarcasm
as if it's his own.

Little half truths were told
protecting everyone but me--
I wanted to know
There was half of me, never there.

He calls me "Girl"
in a voice sounding like mine
if I were an old man.

Conversation comes easy
after initial shocks of every emotion
and photos exchanged--
fifty six years to fill in.

He calls me "Girl"
and regrets circumstances
that made cowardice win.

Every story has multiple sides
and truths come barreling out
piecing missing parts in place--
victims of a bygone era.

He calls me "Girl"
in a father's voice
because I am (his) daughter.

Lives, zipped back together
into places they should have been
all along--
years, he tried to find me.

He calls me "Girl"
and I will never tell my mother
that my daughter found my father
and she is his girl, too.