Drift.

My dad has the clearest pale blue eyes I've ever seen.

He lies staring at the ceiling and I don't know 

if he is there behind them yet.

I feel my legs buckle. but somehow remain standing. 

I have never noticed how alike our hands are before.

As I hold his for the first time since I was a child. 

There's no grip.No yellowy stain on his fingertips.

This is probably the longest he hasn't smoked before. He must be pissed.

He has never known quite how to be a dad.

But I never gave up on him. But, 

he drifts. unanchored. Seemingly unattached.

I've learnt to recognise that same drifting in myself. 

It seems hereditary. And it feels like safety.

But it's really just a lie.

He's stubborn. Some might say pigheaded.

(I know I would) But, 

he has always been a warrior.

We have that in common too.

Stubborn warriors who need nothing from nobody. 

Of course, that's a lie too.

My dad has the clearest pale blue eyes

I've ever seen,

They look at me as though I shouldn't be here.

Or perhaps he sees his reflection.