Ode to Dad

a Father's Day gift

Hi there!

Happy belated Juneteenth and happy Father’s Day. I have a poem I wrote based on memories of my father, and inspired by reading “Ode to Gray” by Dorianne Laux. I’d love to hear from readers how it strikes them; if it inspires any sense memories of your fathers, I’d love to read.

Giant knuckle wrinkles, stretched white and taut 
across painted wood. Thin lips snort, grin, and 
kiss body parts between crib bars. 
The smell of drip coffee early 

in the morning. The hills fulfilled with fog
behind our house. Cereal on weekdays. 
Egg burritos, pancakes, and Daddy McMuffins 
on weekends. Exchanging a smile and silly face
for the plate. The dishes washed immediately. 

A company branded white ceramic mug. 
A wheeled suitcase on the threshold of the 
kitchen tile. A long hug, held in confusion. 
A protruding belt buckle. Whiskery cheeks 
and fine jawbone against mine, smooth 

and unpronounced. A stuffed animal, 
shirt, or stuffed animal in a shirt, the name 
of a foreign city on it. Whatever keychains are for. 
An enthused voice on the phone. Coiled 
cord to the desk with Dad handwritten 

on speed dial. Launching into the stratosphere 
timed to your weight on the trampoline. 
Wrestling matches in the living room. 
Knee bones in anger for the finishing move. 
But sometimes, a heaviness to the footfalls  

coming home late from work. A workout bench 
set up for the Laker game. A cooler of sports 
drinks from the garage fridge. Cargo loaded 
up in the trunk. Oakley sunglasses, hairy arms
 
at the wheel, calling come on, let's go! We’re late,
late, for a very important date! Driving the 
van, Mercedes, Lexus, Escalade, Navigator 
Sea Ray, Shockwave, second Shockwave, 
golf cart, Jamboree, Tiffin, to the lake

through the windmill desert. 
Jumping in warm water, tossed myself or 
tossed a football to catch in midair. Jet- 
lagged, watching the sunrise over the Pacific 
on the big island. Swimming, swimming,
 
swimming in tears to put out the fire. 
Too late, it's on the news. Sandbags on black hillsides. 
The garage workbench and iron grates in the attic 
now shades of ash. Embassy Suites beds made
by the maid. Room service in, insurance appointments
 
out. Arguments and uncertainty. It's never easy
leaving and trusting to return. A figure waving 
shrinking in rearview. A long hug, held in confusion
at the mouth of car or airport doors. A light scratch 

of the temple at the pause in an old story 
more beloved for its familiarity. Boys 
in the graveyard. Axe murderer in the hills. Joint 
in the cup holder. Woman at the lake. Widow's peak 

cresting domed forehead. Like the wine, like
any relationship, an evolved appreciation. 
The same eyes of the boy in the elder. 
The fear to say goodbye. The gratitude
for what is and has been. Gritted teeth 
at the outlook 

of the roller coaster.