by Ashley Farmer
The last time I saw my father it was over the fence that separated our yards. “I’m sorry I always beat your ass,” he said. “That’s okay,” I replied. Plum trees frothed above us. He said, “I’m sorry I never told you I had joy in my life, like seeing my name written on a piece of rice when I was a kid.” He turned away from me, and I wanted to say something, but it was getting very dark and very cold and I still had so many bones to rake up.
Ashley Farmer lives in Syracuse, NY where she is an MFA student, teacher and bad drummer. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, ATOMICA Magazine and elsewhere.