for my father on his birthday
I learned from my father to be silly,
to speak in strange accents, to make up
odd lyrics, and to hum when I don’t
know the words.
He taught me how quickly a car can turn
for a rummage sale sign,
and how easy it is to find treasure.
He taught me always to have a plan—
a one-, a five- and a ten-year plan.
You can always change the plan,
he says, but you need at all times
a one-, a five- and a ten-year plan.
I learned that even the strongest people
cry and that ice cream can save a day.
He taught me to use a chainsaw, shoot a gun,
drive an ATV, and wear dresses.
My father’s eyes sparkle, something
no one can teach, but I learned
it was possible for someone to shine
from inside.
His poem about his father
would be a very different poem.
There are people who give to the world
what they were not given themselves.
My father taught me I could be anything,
then accepted me for who I was.
I learned I could fail and still be loved.
In every room I enter, I bring my father—
don’t be surprised when I can’t stop
giggling, when I ask you
about your plans.