True Father

I've done it again,
been careless
and down right naughty.
I look to the door
expecting the belt
to fly off your waist.
Expecting rage to fill you,
and contempt in your words.
I expect profanities
to fly around the room
like little nasty birds
pecking at my skin.
While I experience
the beating of my life.
I've blown it again.
I knocked over the vase,
got paint on the walls,
tracked mud in the room,
left myself unkempt
in smelly stained clothes.
And I stand in front of you
in anticipation of a beating.
Maybe that would be easier
than trying to make things right.
Just take your rage out,
But you aren't angry.
Yet, I know from your look
there is disappointment.
I've disobeyed.
Instead of blows,
your words flow out like
honey and lemon
on a sore throat
Stinging and sweet all at once,
cleansing and healing.
You take me by hand
and dress me in clean clothes.
Then help pick up the pieces
of shattered ceramic.
Help me scrub the paint
off the wall,
the vile words disappearing
letter by letter.
Help me wash the dirt off the floor.
All the while
whispering words of kindness to me.
And I cannot believe my luck.
Why aren't you angry?
Why aren't you giving me the silent treatment?
Don't you think I deserve...
You know what I deserve,
but you already gave it to someone else
they volunteered to take my punishment.
Have I forgotten so quickly?