Go Away

When I was six, you took me away. I didn't know why.
You told me I had a new dad now and didn't allow me to cry.
I wished you'd go away.

You later gave me a new brother and then went out every night.
I fed him, bathed him, held him, and didn't put up a fight.
I wished you'd go away.

When I was a teen, you embarrassed me, being loud and crude.
You offended others, and often were rude.
I wished you'd go away.

When I was all grown, you often left my brother alone.
He didn't know where you were and called me on the phone.
I wished you'd go away.

You found a new man and yearned to move away with him.
You gave my brother to me and ran off on a whim.
I wished you'd stay away.

You got sick, came back around, tried to be a mother.
The cancer took your life. You left both me and my brother.
That wasn't what I meant by go away.