my father taught me chess, but we dont play.

when we did, he let me win. I hated it, hated him, hated how
he gave me everything, even victory. how
could I resent a man whod stop the world
from spinning if I told him I was dizzy? I never did.
I never told him anything. love doesnt make a man
patient, kind. his impatience rattled in my sleep.
when he yelled, my bones retreated deep.
his swears dug beneath my skin, twinged,
gnawed my nerves to bits. my fathers
flaws embedded in my flesh.
he taught me chess. we used my board,
wooden, with a broken hinge. his board
before he called it mine. the pieces
had bottoms of peeling felt, green.
I loved this set; I love it now, I will love it
with a love I keep close to my chest,
a love I could never let show, let go,
share, grow. could never let my father know
how much I loved this dusty, disused set.
we dont play chess and
I have never said, I love you, dad.
if I had, would I have meant it?
if I pulled my chess set down and
set out its well-worn pieces,
if my father and I sat across it,
could we play? or would the gulf
between our sides keep even
queens at bay? he wouldnt know my game,
couldnt guess the moves Id make.
he wouldnt need to let me win-would he try? could I stand checkmate?
my father taught me chess, my best defenses.
could I let them break?