I didn’t toss the ball With Pop at six I didn’t hunt or fish At green sixteen I didn’t learn To fix my car At twenty I didn’t grow up Knowing how to fight I taught my father How to shoot a basketball I taught him What a balk is From a walk I showed him Greenwich Village And to fight without fighting And the chili that makes The loudest **** And he taught me whiskey And the best tobacco How to shave My face And not appear so young He showed me Spain, Bullfighting, And Picasso, And the cheapest food In Mexico We shared our pride Our books And being always stubborn About the things We cared The most about We shared a car Sometimes And all our music And the way we hoard things That we buy We fought And fiercely Over his prejudice; His hurting mom; My attitude; The way he always worshipped Reagan And whether Olga Was an ugly name. Sometimes I’d write things And he wouldn’t get them Sometimes I’d write things That he didn’t like And then he’d tell me They were ok, but On his face was anguish At what I had done My father taught me How to be a real man He showed me laughter, How to be a friend; He made me realize How to mold my values From the things I learned And not the things He said My father told me When I was a baby To call him Aita Because he was Basque And to this day That’s still his name To me My sisters And my dad Now, Aita’s sick Sometimes Sometimes he’s wrong Sometimes he’s flawed A child— One more of Mom’s But every day We spend Together I am more proud To be His son.