Grace Cram
Dad pulls me in to a twirl
as if i was still his little girl
and we dance
like we did to the Cinderella song
at the father-daughter dance at church.
I had pressed my cheek into his navy blue button-up
swaying in the middle of the pink smoke-machine fog
and wished to dance forever.
now, Tension has weaseled into the space between our arms.
and we twirl around
the raw words exchanged in angry teenage passion,
trampling them into graves
until they resurrect
over the kitchen table
the next day.
I have this crick in my neck
from looking up to you
for so long.