Letter never sent

Dad, I'm a world away. 
My eyes are open wide and my chin is stuck in a downward position. My neck hurts from double takes and my mind is racing struggling to keep up, categorize, understand, and file each moment away in the cabinets of my mind. Overloaded is an understatement. But each night I find my way back to you. I wonder what you're doing and I think about the steps that lead you to me and the steps that now take you away. You are as you always have been my home. My first love and my first joy. The anchor that holds me here and half of the pain I carry around like a well loved suitcase. I think of you, dad. I think of you and I cry. My heart breaks. I think of you and I think of regret, of pain, of hope and the uncertainty of life. I think of your hands and your bones. And how they broke to put toys in my stocking and bread on my plate. I think of you and I think of an empty chair at the table one meant for a green eyed little girl with blonde hair like her mother. I think of you and I see you lying back and letting life wash over you. Like one day you threw your hands above your head and gave up or gave in. You look at me dad and I know you see your own mistakes. you look at me and see a reflection of yourself. You look at me and see my pain that you helped pack. I want you to know its okay. Because in my suitcase I've got understanding. I understand the reality of the word alone. I understand what it means to put it all down and to let it all go. Daddy, I understand. It was never your fault, what happened. I know why you hid away. I know why you couldn't talk to me and I'm sorry you can't look at your son without seeing two little girls wronged. I understand why you closed your eyes and turned your cheek. I understand.
And I forgive you. Daddy, I took that understanding and I packed my suitcase full of flowers and before I took that three thousand mile leap you looked at me like you saw me for the first time. You looked at me like you've never been prouder. So, dad, pack your suitcase say your goodbyes and spread seeds of understanding along the way. I'll be here looking at you and I have never been prouder.

Two days ago I went to the Rite Aid on Smith and Bergen to pick up some contact solution. On my way I walked past a man with his son whom I'm guessing was around four years old.. The little boy was walking a few paces in front of his dad. I watched him trip, fall and hit his face hard on the cement. When he lifted his head there was some blood coming from his nose and mouth and as I'm sure you guessed he immediately started crying.  I stood across the street watching and waiting for his father to comfort him. Instead his dad walked over, picked him up by the back of his shirt, roughly set him on his feet and said in a low threatening voice "boy you better act right." I felt so helpless. Every bone in my body wanted to hold him but you can't really do that. A young white girl can't cradle a small boy outside the projects while his big black dad three times her size stares her down. This is the reality of New York. All I could do was turn around and cry for the love and tenderness that little boy probably never receives.
I kept walking and when I turned the corner onto Smith I happened to run into a woman I work for, Beth. A little bit of info about Beth. She is a somewhat well off New Jersey native that spent 10 years in the corporate world before becoming a doula. She was coming back from a CPR class and stopped to talk. I told her what happened obviously shaken from it and she gave me a small smile patted me on the back and said "Oh Kaycie you're so sensitive. Go get your contact solution. I'll see you on Monday." 
Living here has taught me that I am somewhat naive to city life. I've learned to keep walking when someone stops to tell me about a friend down on their luck or look away when a homeless man stands up on the subway. None of which I can do without feeling guilty. I have overheard two homeless men at a stop talk about how they had enough money from trolling the trains to buy some smack. It still keeps me guessing though, what if this man is telling the truth this time? 
But is this something that I'll just have to get used to as well? Is seeing the open mistreatment of children a part of everyday life? I know I'm sensitive but where do you draw the line between necessary hardness and honest human empathy? 
The question constantly on my mind is how do you measure a man? How do I measure myself?
I am often surprised. I've seen the hardest looking man on the train empty his pockets for a man and his girlfriend claiming they needed money for insulin. I've seen an old Chinese woman get her arm smashed in the subway doors to return a little girl's doll. I've watched the sweetest most polite homeless man give up his seat to a tired mother. I've walked past a group of girls only to hear white bitch as I pass by. I've seen men digging in garbage and women sobbing on the street. I've put on a stoic face but I'm still tender underneath and I don't walk away from anything I've seen unscathed. Maybe I am sensitive by anyone's standards. Maybe I don't know anything at all but here's something that I hope. I hope I'm never not affected by it. I'm proud of who I am and I'm not afraid to admit I've got a big bleeding heart. I hope everything I see hits me like a punch to the stomach and leaves me reeling every time.