It began as my father cheering for me,
he’d count it off, then chant low and bright,
One, Two, Three, Yay Rox!
He used it often—for curtain calls
and piano recitals and catching fish
and semester finals. And he’d use it,
too, when I’d come in blue
with rejection letters or a broken heart,
and he’d say it softer, with a squeeze and a hush,
One, Two, Three, Yay Rox.
His is a heart of sun.
All moments are moments worth honoring.
What does not makes us more wholly ourselves?
And then, I don’t remember when,
he changed the rules and made me join in.
Made me say the five words together with him,
whether I wanted to or not,
One, Two, Three, Yay Rox!
How my own tongue stumbled, still sometimes does,
but always, his voice is there beneath my own,
steady and confident, tender and clear.
After years decades of cheers, I daily
harvest the wealth.
How wise, the father, who gives
a girl herself.
