My therapist is blaming all my problems
on my father
which seems somewhat unfair
as he is somewhat dead.
My father.
My therapist is quite alive
though I sometimes wish it otherwise.

Like now.
My father is defenseless
and hasn’t been the bastard that browbeat me
for decades now.
“He changed,” I said,
“And anyway, he’s dead.”
My therapist remains adamant
in the face of my father’s necrosis
and finds fault with him
in everything.

I don’t like to speak ill of the dead
despite how easy it can be.
And I don’t want to heap all my troubles
at the feet of a man
who can’t defend himself.
That, it seems,
is my therapist’s job.
No wonder he charges so much.

I think
that my therapist thinks
that laying blame
at someone’s feet
will make it easier
for me to heal the trauma
of all those yesterdays.
My therapist’s heart
is in the right place
I hope.

My dad’s,
of course,
is not.
His heart
was donated
to a Great Lakes medical school.