blue-collar father

by Alice Blackwell

Growing up, bicycle riding seemed like a rudimentary skill

Instead, I developed my own LLC to diagnose, treat, and mend wounds

My healing abilities emerged at 8

Far too young to understand my parents’ wrongdoings, but too naïve to say no

I was a mother to my younger brothers while my parents navigated impoverish landscapes

Food pantry scraps on Tuesday, a delicacy, but I couldn’t tell them bread upsets my stomach

I wasn’t ungrateful, just intolerant

I retained my caretaking capabilities through my teenage years

My brothers’ Freudian slips, genuine

But I didn’t birth my brothers – 1, 5, and 8 years younger

I was a child. I should not have had those responsibilities.

I should have been learning how to ride a bicycle - still haven’t.

My mother – a hairdresser lacking motherliness

And my blue-collar father, quiet & responsible provided for our family of 6

I have less to say about a man who was partially present due to labor fatigue

Pick between your mother and father

I picked my mother.

When my father swallowed half a prescription bottle of Xanax, I was my brother’s first call

My self-taught medicinal practices failed me as I anxiously navigated the hospital halls

I perceived myself as older, but my physical appearance and stature depicted the truth.

I was scared & yearned for parental guidance and comfort.

John, my father’s registered nurse, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, placed his large masculine hand on my dainty shoulder

Are you ready?

I lost my composure

My father’s nurse towered over my small, meek frame but matched my pace effortlessly

How many children has he consoled?

He wove around the bend of the nurse’s station and paused.

The jargon overwhelmed my nervous system

Medically induced coma

We’re giving his body time to rest

News about my mother’s infidelity spread like wildfire

He’s going to be fine

My blue-collar father worked odd shifts but managed to attend softball games.

My blue-collar father, head of the household, thought of everyone but himself

My blue-collar father was angry, anxiety ridden, and asking for help, and rightfully so.

I struggled to find his hand amongst the cords

I’m sorry, Dad

I did what I could. I helped when I needed.

I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders

He and I were suffering together, but he wanted his pain to end

He chose me

But he didn’t have to.

Our genetics don’t intermingle, but I find myself more like him

People flock to our inherent caretaking, but neglect our subtle cries for help

No one recognized his pain, anger, and sadness until it rendered him useless

My family decided to move on from this as if it never happened

No discussion.

No treatment.

I promise it doesn’t get better – it hasn’t.

I still find people to fix.

They flock to me.

What will it take for me?

Photo of Alice Blackwell

BIO: Alice Blackwell resides in hell, more formally known as Southern Indiana. She holds a BS, MBA, and is currently pursuing a MSW in Clinical Social Work Practice. She has several poems published in Alien Buddha Press (Alien Buddha Zine 84 & 85 & The Alien Buddha's Got Beef), Pure Sleaze Press (Ticket to Midnight Volume IV), Horror Sleaze Trash (https://horrorsleazetrash.com/2026/01/15/alice-blackwell/), and Cajun Mutt Press (scheduled Featured Writer for July 22, 2026), Spillwords, and Blood + Honey! She enjoys expressing herself through poetry and never shies away from a new ink pen, planner, or organizational tool.