That fat guy at the bar, with the braided ponytail and the fifty-two waist easy-fit jeans?  And, no, he didn’t look any better back when I hooked up with him, except his hair had no grey in it and he wasn’t standing in a puddle of beer saying, “I hope that’s not my bad.”  

            Front seat of his Ford dualie, my foot got stuck under the headrest and the man nearly crushed me: I had the purple-yellow bruises way into my first trimester.

Go over, tell him he’s your dad.

You were my miracle, but he didn’t believe in them.  

Daniel Pyne is a writer living in Los Angeles.

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