I used to think of my dad as
A root, a vegetable,
clinging to filth with arms strung up to the sun.
Something organic and stiff and pure,
made from the raw things that grumble beneath the earth.
At our old house we had a peach tree; the pink-orange of the peach,
the blue of my dad’s uniform, a grease-stained jumpsuit,
and the tub that we had in our front yard, spilling over with flowers,
lay golden in the suburbs of my childhood.
When I was young, Dad called me double-o-seven.
He taught me to dream all tall and wide, like a canyon.
Dad said I looked best at six, in curls and overalls;
he taught me to dream cool and deep, like the ocean
reflected cobalt in the sky.
My dad has these hands,
all brown and wrapped in thick muscle and cords of vein.
Calluses like landmarks, like promises of comfort.
They give off cinnamon heat, they do not lie.
They were borne of dirt and made for greatness.
Our house is his legacy; he formed it
like god formed the earth: all splendor,
all perfection, but my father?
On the seventh day he did not rest.
He continued, and continues
to lay his cinnamon hands on everything
and make them bountiful.
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