Haunted by Pink

My step brother is three days
younger than I am.

I am only ten and riding my bike
that my dad gave me
and will eventually paint fuchsia to give to my younger step-sister.

I try to pull a wheelie on
my yet-to-be-pink bike,
and take flight over the handlebars when
I don’t land my little trick.

My elbows stop me,
and I hold them up to my dad, dripping
oxygen enriched ochre blood.
Four inches of skin I will never see again.

The next day Nick and I fight.
No real reason, we just hate each other.
He calls my dad his dad. My dad is mine, not his.
He already has a bastard dad.

I have my hands up blocking punches.
He sees the two red scabs of opportunity
and rips them off.

They hurt, and the blood drips on the floor
again.
My blood is still in that garage,
small spots of brown stains by the wooden workbench.

Three weeks later I see Nick,
my dad is dragging him, kicking and screaming
to the car. His mother decided
she didn�t want him anymore,
he was too much trouble.

The next time I visit my dad,
I get to stay in the guest bedroom,
under a white flower beadspread
between bright pink walls.