One More Thing I’d Say To My Dad (If He Hadn’t Died)

You remember not letting me in the house until I fought Jeremy Rowe? He’d followed me home from school, looking to avenge his sister’s good name. I’d insulted her after his 347th impersonation of my stutter. He’d perfected it over time, the way I looked up and bit my lip, how my eyes glossed over. Perfection led me to calling her a slutbucket.

Jeremy stood at the edge of our property, calling me “D-D-D-Danny,” yelling that I was a chickenshit. You locked the screen door, said get off the fucking patio and remember to jab.

At some point, I think after I had grass stuffed in my mouth, I glanced over at the front door. I didn’t see you.

When it was over, I whacked the screen door until you appeared. We stood there for at least a minute. You finally unlocked the door. Before going in I nearly said, “f-f-f-f-fuck you.” I think I wanted you to knock me out.

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David Erlewine’s fiction appears in FRiGG, the Los Angeles Review, Pedestal Magazine, and others. He is JMWW’s flash editor.