To Father On His Birthday
Every
so often when someone asks,
What’s
your father in your life?
I
tell them his role has been seminal.
Laughing
and giggling, they say I’m witty.
Mewling,
crawling, standing and falling,
His
fingers have been my first crutches.
My
filial cry would be barely heard before
He
raised me high to the tones of joy.
Will
a poem or elegant prose do
For
a man who taught me to speak?
Or
should I write hymns day in, day out
In
the letters he sewed in me by his blood?
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