my father carries his grandmother's wisdom with him
like a satchel upon his back,
like a palm print;
his own father’s teachings tug like strings
and read like a map worn but never wrong —
one that transcends.

my father knows how to live for himself
for the sake of others.
a hidden art form —
secretive to his son
who only knows how to live for others
for the sake of himself.

i could ask him how he does it,
but he tells me first that i will live and learn and hurt and grow,
and so i know, instead, that i will come to know.

my father carries me in his arms as though i am still one day old,
as though i am still taking my first few tiny gasps of air from this great big world
(the world he built for me),
as though my eyes have not yet become accustomed to the light.

my father’s arms never tire and i know why.
they are satchel and palm print,
strings and map.

i am one day old and sure that my father has lived a thousand lifetimes.
he speaks in bloodlines, holds heritage in his hands and then brings it to his head when it whispers.
like a child holding a shell to his ear, listening to the ocean.
my father knows where to find right answers.

i could ask him how he does it,
but he is already answering.

he has always been answering.

(a.m.)