Photo by Darryl Willis | All Rights Reserved

Dad

He said there was a time in life
he didn’t recall a sober day.
Seven years, he said. I said
I didn’t believe. He claimed it true.
And I felt bad because I knew
it pained him after all these years.

He wept over the death of mom.
Even though it was long ago,
he blamed himself. I loved him even
for the shame. They were the cracks
that stretched across his brow — not his
to bear. He bore them all the same.

His joyful weakness touched my heart.
He never claimed a perfect life.
But he strained for that which he
could never reach. And I was drawn
to this joy, and even more,
I loved him for the sadness, too.

To support the poet’s benign coffee addiction: Coffee.