Dad... do you remember when you used to do handstands?

My father...
A white man with Native blood. His parents hardly mentioned it. I remember my white grandmother saying we have some sort of Navajo blood...
Well I did the research and it isn't Navajo at all, it's Cherokee, and plenty of it. I expect her to have lied though, that was something she was good at...
but enough about her.
My mother told me that when I was first born, my dad nearly dropped me from the shock. Imagine his surprise that his child of a black woman could be so... soo...
white?
For my part, this is one of the few times I can recall my dad acting fatherly.For the most part, let's just say some things happen, and after the point of age 10, my dad was almost entirely non present, and when he was present, he would make very little effort to reinstate a loving relationship.  Then, in my teen years, he started calling me names.
Is it any wonder why I wanted to leave home? The stress, the strain of responsibilities getting put on me was too much, and at some point I started losing gaps in memory, started passing out. To save myself, I fled, yet when I returned, the situation was not much more pretty.
My dad is someone I don't know. He's had his presence through my entire life, and yet his presence has seemed more like an afterthought than an experience. I grew up thinking and feeling that no one was there for me.
The relationship my mother had with my father was one that was much more like poison than an expression of love. Yes, they remained together, yet there was always a feeling that they did this out of necessity rather than actual expression. If my mother wasn't yelling at my father, my dad was yelling at her.  They degraded each other, they argued over money, they argued over us. On valentines day, my father would wait for the sales to come then get her something, and on Christmas it was never anything romantic or thoughtful. My mother poured her effort into his birthdays, however, this was not well received.  He insisted on handmade cakes and food, and seldom took her out. Now, later in life that she is without vision, the only places he will go is super cheap which means, not very healthy.

I don't know what love looks like...
For me, love looks complicated, abusive, and draining. Yet, I know what I want love to mean. I know what I want it too look like.

I know the result is fear and anticipation. That is how I look at love. With fear, and anticipation.

What can I say?

I am my parents's daughter...