My father who is no dad stereotype, whose million voices are the cacophony of comfort I crave, whose long letters I receive with deepest joy, whose stories I carry in my clenched fists, whose laugh lines and ruddy cheeks I wear, whose affinity for wit and laughter and empathy I strive to reach, whose creative and abundant spirit is bound up in kindness and love and the same crippling nostalgia as my own. I love you to the moon and back and back and back.
Published by caitlyncaleah
A native Californian with roots that run deep in San Francisco and the Gold Rush country, Caitlyn has called Oakland home for eight years. Her heart races for farmers' market fruit, black and white movies, found poems, Oakland dive bars and vintage dresses. She is interested in Bay Area queer and Jewish histories, health care as a right not a privilege and any excuse to use the word 'palimpsest.' Follow her instagram project @instagrandma_100 View all posts by caitlyncaleah