Letter To My
Father
Forgive me Dad,
for calling you, for taking ten
minutes
out of your day to say hello.
Forgive me for getting stuck
along the jagged banks
of conversation --
for seeing the hills ahead
but not knowing how steep or
wide
or how to slow down or speed up,
for just wanting to drive
the whole way by your side
engaged in every word that wraps
itself
around the receiver.
"Hello, Dad.
How are you?"
But, I am not prepared
for those empty spaces --
I never know what to say
when you get stuck.
Sometimes I want to
throw you a rope,
help you climb out of the muck
of our boot camp conversation.
I just want to
stop the car
with you, pull over
so we can walk to the edge of
the hill
and look out over the land.
I see a village
Dad
where there are no phones --
a village where any hungry child
can call out in the middle of
the night
where a father clumsily clops
his way to the child's room.
I am calling you
Dad --
calling for you to come out --
to drop the phone,
to just come running out.
