Birthday Poem
by: Billy Collins
Remember that birthday poem
I wrote for you?
It just stopped being about you.
I did some very typical father things today. Mowed my lawn. Watched Portrait Artist of the Year. Had barbecued bratwurst and chips for dinner. Visited with my father-in-law who is in the Upper Peninsula for the weekend. Did final edits on my poetry manuscript.
Okay, maybe some of those things aren't typical for all fathers, but I have never been a cookie-cutter kind of dad. My kids seem to be turning out okay, despite my flaws (strengths?) in the fathering department.
My dad was not what you would call an emotionally available man. I know he loved me, but he showed his love by working his ass off his whole life. We never went hungry. Had new clothes and shoes at the beginning of every school year. He showed up for every school play, concert, award ceremony, or sporting event.
The last time he came to one of my poetry readings before he died, my father sat in the front row and kept his eyes closed the entire time I was speaking. I thought he'd fallen asleep. He came up to me afterward and said, "I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on every one of your words." And he hugged me.
Saint Marty may not be a typical father, but hopefully his kids know they are loved ferociously.
A Poet Father's Plea
by: Martin Achatz
Don't buy me
a jigsaw or drill,
necktie or Turtle Wax
for Father's Day.
Get me a Moleskine
journal, fountain pen,
so I can write a poem
about how your newborn
toes tasted like prayer
on my lips the day
you were born.
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