This poem is for you, father,
And not because you took me home from the hospital
And you gave me my first bath,
Or because you would wake me up after getting home
From third shift at the factory, so we could have
Mushroom soup together (I remember sitting
On your lap, and you letting me have all the mushrooms).
This poem is for you, and not because
You moved to Florida for my asthma,
And not because you moved back to Connecticut
For me to have a tonsillectomy. It is not because
You purchased two gloves and a baseball
From Sears & Roebuck, so we could have a catch
In the driveway, and it is not because
I didn’t make the team in junior high school.
This poem is for you, father, and not because
Your wife, and my mother, died,
And not because my third grade class went to the funeral,
And I didn’t, and it is not because
You talked me into going back to school after three days
Of playing with my Civil War soldiers
That mother promised me for Christmas.
It is not because I wanted to give mother’s jewelry away
To my first love, and it is not because I wouldn’t
Now give it away to my next love, even if I still had those
Rubied broaches and emerald pins in my possession.
This poem is for you, father,
And not because you wanted me to become a mechanic,
And not because I wanted to become a poet.
