My father. Old sailor. Old farmer. Old carpenter. Old interpreter. Old archive of facts And history. He knows Our ancestory by heart down To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years Old today. Bought me my first pen, My first book, taught me English From the age of five. Told me I Had the gift of language and Expression. And that I was A stronger boy than any Anyone had ever seen By the time I began To learn English. I owe him credit For every word I have written. Weak now With age and Bad lungs, I still See him as a giant Handling a chainsaw, Smelling of forestry and Gasoline and winter, smiling At me with eyes deep blue from Seeing more ocean and sky than I Ever will know with my own. His name to me is pappa. After a few pints of his homemade Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like Old friends, remembering how The roles were different back Then. I am glad I stopped by For a cuppa on this day. He Would never ask me to. Happy Birthday, pappa.
I'd cut a decade from my lifetime To add a single year To yours.