Happy Birthday (a poem I wrote awhile ago)

“Happy Birthday” it says. 
Capital H, Capital B. 
It’s 2:30 in the morning and the first thing he’s said to me in years. 
The first thing he’s said to me since he said  I’m a terrible granddaughter, abandoning my (abusive) grandmother at the end of her life. 
“Happy Birthday”
Capital H, Capital B. 

From time to time I let myself wonder what he thinks about me.
What he says.
Am I still the ungrateful daughter?
The one faking illness for attention?
The one who outed her brother’s abuse, who ruined his life when it was just getting good?

The message is from an iPhone.
He had to purposefully capitalize the B.
How long did he stare at it before he sent it? 
Did he hesitate?
Did he type it out and delete it and type it again?

It’s been so long I sometimes forget he exists. 
Is that weird?
Someone who shaped so much of my first 20-some years,
Someone who caused irrevocable harm
Gave me night terrors
And somehow I forget he exists?

What is he doing right now, lying awake at 2:30 in the morning?
Is he thinking about how he failed his youngest daughter?
How he didn’t protect me
How he chose my abuser over me
How he wanted to silence me
How he missed all the warnings
How he lied and broke promises
How he expected everything but gave nothing?
Because I am. 

Is he lying awake at 2:30 in the morning, and capitalizing a B,
thinking about me and 
feeling guilt,
feeling anything?