Poems hide in school desks and annuals, scribbled
or crafted by boys and girls, bakers or bards,
praising fathers for fatherly things, which
may make this poem redundant, or at least unnecessary.
But it must be said: Great fathers got nothin’ on my dad
(Billy Collins, you must forgive the vernacular).
And everywhere Fathers and Papas and Dads
excel–it’s like half the adult population;
doing things right by their children.
Grand fathers, they are. Those who fought in great
wars, those who raised children alone, those who
sacrificed, toiled, and loved beyond measure,
like my grandfathers, Louis and Homer.
I did not know them, but I think I actually do.
I see them in the eyes of my father when
he hugs my daughter. I see them in the eyes
of my husband when he loves our son.
I know my grandfathers when I see kindness
and wisdom in my uncles and cousins,
when I hear the stories about cooking or fishing,
building things or fixing cars.
Grand fathers raise up grand sons and we,
daughters, sons, wives, husbands, all,
pen our utmost thanks, have a barbecue (or tacos),
and anxiously await….the dubs and cavs.
Sorry, boys.
Plans and poems change when a game 7
happens on your Sunday.
Word Play 