Before I was born my father hoped for his first born to be a boy. He got his wish; I was born male and he was happy. My mother had made his boyhood dreams come true! I was a real boy looking baby - big, healthy and strong with eyes like two holes burnt in a blanket. We could watch football together when I got older, I’d be a little him – go along to the games. He was proud of me; he wished that his father were still here so he could meet me, he died when my dad was ten. One moment alive the next dead – he was hit by a car.

I grew up and my blonde hair went brown, just like my parents; I got my fathers’ complexion - paler than my mothers olive skin. My dad was never around, he was always busy in the office and spent his weekends sleeping or watching the football. He never really interacted with me, taught me anything. He was impatient and it was my mothers’ job to do these things anyway.

I spent my time drawing, reading and writing short stories. I played sports when I was younger and I was good but I didn’t like it; my Dad would never take me - my mother would. It was boring and he was boring and I just wish he would leave. I would read and draw for hours while my dad sat around watching football. I would go for a swim and my dad would come out from the house for a cigarette – going back in when the football came back on. He would never acknowledge me; we wouldn’t speak. We continued doing what we were doing - wishing that the other wasn’t there.

I don’t speak to my father anymore. I don’t know where he lives or what he’s doing but ten bucks says he’s probs watching the footy.

Justin Hinder, July 2015