My Father

is not what they imagine

My father is not holy.

He is the scent of rain and dust in

October. He is broken leaves,

calloused hands, and echoing silence.

He is white teeth

glinting through a still brown beard.

Cool touch of mint and cramped

handwriting on yellow lines.

My father sits on a pedestal- he

flings himself from it, but

dirty hands push him up again.

Socks are left on the hardwood floor,

collars are stained with grease but

he is only lifted higher.

I lay in the grass to see him as

he reflects the sun. I miss him when they

crowd around his ivory tower

blocking my view.

Being a father is painful. You must

forgive yourself when children see your faults and

deny them. When

they turn far from stained glass prisons.

Instead I lay in dirt, fill empty spaces.

Sometimes he sneaks out and

joins me. We’re

heathens together. Ankle deep in mud

laughing about the holy.

Laughing about

our flaws.

  

Reviews

[-]

This was a moving piece to me. I am a father and I would be honor if my kids wrote something like this about me. Lucky father. N.

[CourtniRenee]

Thank you! My dad is one of my best friends. He is a very complicated person and has always inspired me to think about things at a different angle.

[-]

Well, this is a great homage to him. N.