A Father's Day letter

To my absent father.

Photo by Conner Baker on Unsplash

Editor’s note: The following letter was written as part of an assignment for a class project during my sophomore year in college. It was the 2001-2002 school year.

I was 19 years old.

The two-page letter sits in a three-ring binder among a collection of other letters, essays, photos, milestones and mementos that encapsulate the making of me. Someday, I will present the binder to my precious Parker.

Today, with Father’s Day approaching, I present one of those letters to my father. I do not know his name.

This letter has been lightly edited for clarity.

---

Dear “Dad,”

I am only writing you this letter because it is an English assignment that fulfills a requirement. You and I both know that we don’t know each other and have never even met. I don’t even know your name.

I am similar to many kids in America. My situation is not unique in any aspect. But just in case you even read this letter, I would have a couple of questions for you.

My first question is how you can have a child and not acknowledge the kid’s life? What kind of man are you to miss every single birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Easter, and even my high school graduation?

As a kid, I used to wonder each birthday whether I would receive a phone call from a stranger claiming to be my father and calling to wish me a happy birthday? Growing up, I still look at certain things in life and think what mine would have been like if I had a father to guide me through whatever it is I saw.

How was I supposed to feel every time an activity had a father-son day, or a father-take-your-son-to-work day? How about the countless number of forms I have filled out in my life instructing me to give my mother and “father’s” name and education level or income. I knew none of those things.

I wonder how you can go on each day living life knowing that you have a seed in the world who doesn’t have a clue as to who his daddy is.

I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about this letter. Because I am only doing it for a class.

I have never known what it was to have a father, and I can basically say I don’t know what a father is. Since I have never even seen you, or a picture of you, it doesn’t affect me one way or the other. I never even think about you unless someone brings up the subject or I have to do something like this.

I know you probably know exactly what I mean since you probably never think about that kid you brought into this world on that cold, fall night in ‘82.

As I sit and write this, I think to myself, what if I really found out your address and sent this to you? How would you respond? Would you respond?

The few times that I have thought about contacting you only lasted for a few seconds. I don’t feel it is my job to have to contact you. You should be man enough to take care of your responsibilities.

When I was growing up, I never needed you. I hope you are happy because you got what you wanted and I still grew up to be a strong man.

I hate when I hear Black women down Black men and call us dogs because I come nowhere near resembling that assumption. Yet when I am alone and to myself thinking about it, I can understand where they’re coming from when they have men like you in the world.

I don’t even feel bad for myself. Who I feel bad for is my mother.

Although we both are making it fine in life, it wasn’t always like that.

Where were you when she was just 33 years old brining what was supposed to be your son into this world and having to work two and three jobs, continue school and take care of her other three children all by herself?

What about those birthdays and holidays where there were few things to make children happy? Why didn’t you ever call to help her out with money behind the scenes?

What pains me is that my mother had to and still has to go through not only raising a son who doesn’t have a father but also having a son with no help of raising him.

I grew up without a father and my three brothers did too. However, the difference between my brothers and me is that they at least know who their father is. Although their fathers might not be described as the best dads, they at least called on birthdays and holidays.

The only time this situation affected me as a kid is when one of my brothers’ dad did call to speak to his kid or my mother — and I answered the phone.

On their birthdays, I knew who it was and always used to think that someday you would call on one of my birthdays to wish me a happy birthday. But that was when I was at the tender age of 9 or 10.

I am grown now and can take care of myself.

If I have learned anything from my situation it’s that I am going to grow up to be a real man and take care of my responsibilities.

If I get myself into something, it is my job to either get myself out of it or handle the situation.

I am not even going to sit here and lie. I do wish I had you in my life when I was a young kid.

I sit and look at other kids in the park or something with their fathers and wish I could have done that when I was younger.

But it is all in the past now and doesn’t help to dwell and harp on it.

For that that does not kill me only makes me stronger.