Father’s Father’s Father’s Father’s Father
i drive to where
both of you lived
a sleepy little town
gutted by high school
graduates who promised
themselves that they were
getting out
even now
i can’t help but look for
my father’s truck
black and gray Silverado
with rough, rusted ladder racks
deep-tinted windows
smelling of cigarette smoke
work sweat
i can almost taste the breakfast
of a single Flintstone vitamin
chocolate milk and a beef jerky
my five kids
fevered with independence
in this sun-dominated Saturday
friends, jobs, anywhere
but with Dad
it hurts deep and good
to know that their worlds
are now bigger than me
they won’t be like us
adrift
not knowing if the man
that raised them
loved them
or found them lacking
and that’s the best I can do
with what little you gave me
2 thoughts on "Father’s Father’s Father’s Father’s Father"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
I love the landing and all the detail you layered on to get there but this line most of all: it hurts deep and good
Doesn’t that just sum up parenting?
Love that breakfast description. Also, love successive possessives, especially those considering the trickle of family, the almost dynastic trauma—it’s a weird but ubiquitous preoccupation. I’ve read that they’re (those that say they are) beginning to link trauma to our DNA even, beyond the laundry lists of instances I think that many of us can relate to. Good poem. Nostalgic, a little bitter, accepting, ultimately hopeful—there’s a whole emotional garden walk there. That breakfast description though, it’s singeing its shape in my ken, like retinal damage from eyeing the sun too long.