Poem: Patchwork Dad
Where I unearth and share a poem written 20 over years ago and hope I don't die of embarrassment.
He is a totem
my personal ninja,
enemy of bogeymen
in the closet of my eight-year-old mind
He is a rusty wheel
that creaks and groans
and snaps at those who block the TV
or at the counter lady who cheats him out of five cents
My patchwork dad
is Russia and
I'm America,
a medium-rare steak and
I'm a lightly tossed salad.
So I have to ask:
Daddy, what do you see
when you look at me?
Am I a darling rosebud to be tossed into a pot and preserved,
a piece of weed blossom pretty to look at but poisonous to touch,
or a creeper that clings and sucks and strangles the nursing tree?
Old days when you glowed with pride
at the gold, silver medals I earned,
or the A's and B's
that marked my worth
they weren't enough for the moment when
your patience died
as I deserted your Troy
and embraced my Helen.
What little warmth we had
froze, stuck as if in
suspended animation in some
bad Sci-Fi show.
Your face perpetually away,
mine forever waiting.
My patchwork dad
I want you back
I will earn my degrees
Build a big house
Throw a big party
Marry a rich man
Bear you ten grandkids,
Give you a million bucks
Just tell me when daddy.
Will there be an end?
Or should I smash that pretty vase
your birthday gift to me years ago
into little smithereens
white, dead, cold bunch of deluded clay pieces that they are.
Author notes
Where I discuss how this poem came to be, and why I’m embarrassed about it. It is only for paid subscribers :)
Read the author’s notes.