In one of the pictures, the teacher sent
your downcast face mirrored the day
of the school trip
Your mother said it is because
of the cold you came down with

In your little hands
was a fluffy grey rabbit
looking lifeless, perhaps
afraid of the courage you had
to hold another creature
even though you do not
yet understand the world

Your sister, right beside you
with her typical frown
holds an identical rabbit
representing the paradox
of what the two of you are to each other

When three and a half years ago
I watched, with masked emotions
both of you laying in separate
transparent plastic capsules
trying to make sense of the new world
you had been brought into
the lines and numbers on the screen
the only signs that you will make it

And here you are, in another picture
this time the little fish pond reflects
your smile and that of the other kids
peering over the wall into its shallow depth
each of their innocent faces an untold story
of the anguish and joy
of bringing another human being
into the world.

Dear Dad,

We close our eyes, and we retreat
to a very special place-
Away from worry, away from doubt-
familiar teardrops trace.

So, when I see you sleeping –
the phone right by your seat-
I cannot help but, lay parallel,
& forgoe frantic's defeat.

All I can do is lay with you

To meet in Slumber's deep

Knowing that day you leave this earth-

we can always meet in sleep.

Love, Eric

This cabin smells damp
Tucked away in the timber
Backroaded
Secluded
Welcome to Deer Camp

It was wintertime
And we had to ***
Into a tube in the wall
PVC

I’m at that awkward age
Not lanky
But frumpy and weird
So hand me a rifle
For the slaughter
Of a creature I revered

Man, what we do
To make our fathers proud

My secret was
I hated guns
And loved boys
I really only went on this trip
Because I heard that John
Grilled some mean potatoes

Accented with caramelized
Onions and garlic
The rumors were true
The fire crackles
Against a sky
Of light blue

I watched these men
Bearded and loud
Would I ever be like them?
Did I want to be?
My quiet heart
Felt alien
A freak

I wasn’t a hunter
Instead I gathered
A harvest of me
Thoughts and emotions
Into a cauldron
Of poetry

But I kept that part
Hidden
Tucked away
For another day

The men in their
Camouflage attire
Yawn as the sun sets
I try to fit
Into the cabin
We retire

The lantern’s light
Flickers across
The walls of the room
Sam’s Club candy
For dessert
Distant thunder
Booms

It was bedtime
And a storm was rolling
In the atmosphere and in
My head full of fear

Can someone please
Get me out of here

I cried from my cot
“Please take me home”
My dad glared

What a disappointing
Drive that was
Have I ever not
Let you down?
I think
As blankly ahead
I stared

We pull into the driveway
Ignition turns off
Headlamps extinguish
He unlocks the door
By the light of the moon
I feel
Relief and anguish

Mom was annoyed
This was supposed to be
Her weekend alone
Grieving the death
Of her own mother
She hugs me
While wiping
A tear from her
Cheekbone

Steel Magnolias
And a box of Kleenex
I ruined that

You brought a fairy
To deer camp
What did you expect?

My father is dead,

he says nothing, but I know --


what he would say now.

more often than not,

i find myself
scrutinizing the person
i see in the mirror;

whispering
and desperately reassuring

that i am not
my mother
nor
my father.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

from the moment i opened my eyes
i had no choice but to love you
to cherish you as if one day you would leave me
and start a new family somewhere far away
from the moment i could stand
i had no choice but to run to you
for comfort and love
but father,
tell me,
why don’t i feel loved?
is there something wrong with me?
is there a secret you haven’t told?
that you have never loved me at all
how come you don’t want me?
from the moment i began to think
i could only ask myself the same questions
over and over, father,
tell me,
is it something i’ve done?
is it that i’m the mistake you’ve created?
or how much burden i bring you?
how much i am spending?
but father,
each day i live as if i am no longer human
my needs do not exist because
those of yours are mine
so father,
tell me
when has your love for me finally died?

There’s no room for me in my own life.  My body cramps and contorts to fit into the narrow little space you’ve allotted for me to occupy, and even then, you manage to take it all up. You’ve barged in on every aspect of my life. It doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. Yes, my life is yours, to do with what you will. You are a god. Omniscient. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. You are everywhere. I am not a fully formed person at all; I am a child clinging to her father’s hand, lest the evils of the world ****** her up and tempt her to sin.

Father is a verb. -
Father's Day and Father Christmas
have tried to convince us, - but don't – be - fooled:
You can, may or will father, depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive.
you can't father alone, only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard with jokes on recycle.
(insert dad joke here)
Yes, father is a verb.

It's something that you do, despite the hour,
it drives right on through the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten fingernails to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation (with an ill-suited hat on).

It turns manliness into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, it works in the singular:
I can father; You can father
    (and I'm not talking *** here;
     that mostly needs a partner.)
But also,
-  it works in the plural -
we can father; and they can father, because, you see,
in this village it’s a joint activity:
we father (and we mother) collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "later!". -
It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter.
sometimes active: directive, protecting.
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening.
... holding, and hugging.
It responds to need, you see, but works best proactively,
works great sacrificially.

More specifically, in the end it’s a doing word
not a noun to be worn like some tilted crown
It's not some post-coitus reflexive honorific
It's a feat way beyond a sudden beget.
Father’s not some title that you necessarily deserve.
It's one that's sorely earned.
Please believe me - that’s right, you heard,
father is a present continuous, long lifetime of a verb.