Your Daddy: To my Best Friend
Your daddy died
comin on three years this February.
Your backbone is just as straight
but your smile is probably
more natural then he remembered.
We pulled up to your old house,
Fence built by his hands,
Golden retriever still on the mail box,
But the realitor had locked the doors.
We went around back
And the only noise
Was the sound of
My green heals clicking
On the cold November deck.
"This is where his bed was,
The one he practically died in.",
You said at the back window
As the words made breathy fog on the window.
The soft pads of your fingertips and palmss
pressed hard on the glass.
I imagine your daddy had rough hands,
Big ones like lion paws
And when he yawned I'm sure
You could see some danger
At the back of his gaping mouth.
But
Then
He would scoop you up
With those huge hands and say,
"whachoo doin lil' girl?"
And smile
The way you do,
Soft and Genuine.
A bleach white bench
Sat alone,
A monument
In the back yard.
The right side was raised
Slightly higher then
the left.
Maybe your daddy
Perfered that left side.
You cried
As i hugged the black corduroy
Jacket around you.
This was the first time
You had come back to his home.
It was getting late
So we walked back up the yard
Over the deck and around the small
House to where my car was parked.
You stood on the front porche
And acted out a funny scene
Between you and your father.
"Yeah, your mother was kinda heavy
when i met her, probably 160.
You look about 160."
I laughed.
We both know
You got your daddy's figure.
comin on three years this February.
Your backbone is just as straight
but your smile is probably
more natural then he remembered.
We pulled up to your old house,
Fence built by his hands,
Golden retriever still on the mail box,
But the realitor had locked the doors.
We went around back
And the only noise
Was the sound of
My green heals clicking
On the cold November deck.
"This is where his bed was,
The one he practically died in.",
You said at the back window
As the words made breathy fog on the window.
The soft pads of your fingertips and palmss
pressed hard on the glass.
I imagine your daddy had rough hands,
Big ones like lion paws
And when he yawned I'm sure
You could see some danger
At the back of his gaping mouth.
But
Then
He would scoop you up
With those huge hands and say,
"whachoo doin lil' girl?"
And smile
The way you do,
Soft and Genuine.
A bleach white bench
Sat alone,
A monument
In the back yard.
The right side was raised
Slightly higher then
the left.
Maybe your daddy
Perfered that left side.
You cried
As i hugged the black corduroy
Jacket around you.
This was the first time
You had come back to his home.
It was getting late
So we walked back up the yard
Over the deck and around the small
House to where my car was parked.
You stood on the front porche
And acted out a funny scene
Between you and your father.
"Yeah, your mother was kinda heavy
when i met her, probably 160.
You look about 160."
I laughed.
We both know
You got your daddy's figure.