My father:
He died when I was in fourth grade,
And all I remember is his tattoo;
Actually, just the fact that he had one.

And the pie he baked-
He forgot the sugar, so the pumpkin was bitter.

And the treehouse he built,
How we would camp there, cramped and cold.

And the roast he cooked,
He used black pepper like a vegetable.

He wasn't perfect, but he was my father,
And his memory weighs on me like ink,
But I can't remember what his ink was-
Just that he had some.