You were there from kindergarten to college graduation.
yet strangely, I never called you dad,
you were always Mr. D.
We shared no more than polite greetings,
good mornings and good afternoons, pass the salt please.
And then your friends came with cut up pieces of beef after the slaughtering of a cow,
With it was always blood pudding.
What was it about that loop of cow blood stuffed sausage wrapped in tin foil that made us sit down together?
In those moments I actually looked you in the eye,
you asked questions about my work at school,
I asked about your garden,
in between we slurped up the spicy, deep dark mush of blood pudding
too bad it only came around every few months.