My father-- in five parts

Part One

There was the time you came
back from somewhere, newspaper in hand
and you had cupacke crumbs on the front of
your shirt. Vanilla fuzz balls-- they
made me hungry, they made me lick.
They made mom pissed. We left shortly
after that. I thought-- food can make
people pack and leave for good.

Part Two

We had to visit you every other
weekend-- even the phrase is difficult to say,
those e's, and the y that sounds like an e, and
that o all by itself. There were daddy long legs
in the bathroom sink. Their dab of body
sitting on the faucet, watching as I used
the toilet. I felt shy by myself.

Part Three

I was six the day I crossed
the street without your permission.
I wandered into neighbor's yards, into
the swimming pool of someone
I didn't know (I was brave at that age).
I found construction workers
on their lunch break. They offered me
macaroni salad, they asked why
my clothes were wet--I told about
the pool, they said I was a funny one.
I heard you call my name. I ran home, afraid.
You yelled. Why was I wet? You told me
to change my clothes and then you would
spank me (You never did like getting dirty).
I took my time pulling off my soggy shorts.
I tip-toed into the living room, you had fallen
asleep in your chair. I curled up on the couch
in mom's afgan, and watched you snoring. Later, you woke
me and asked if I wanted a tuna fish sandwich for
supper. You had forgotten about the pool, my wet
clothes, the spanking. I thought-- things can
be erased.

Part Four

Mountain Dew was your favorite, you
would get mad at us if we drank the last
of it. One April fool's day, the boys and I
put jelly beans in your glass when you
weren't in the room. We watched as the
blues and oranges and pinks dissolved
in the green fizz, watched as you took a
gulp and saw the candied blobs floating
at the bottom. We all yelled, April Fools!
You didn't laugh. You yelled and made
us get you a new glass. I learned that
parents don't get jokes.

Part Five

You smoked Marlboro reds. You always
carried a soft pack in your shirt pocket.
When I would climb into your lap to
cuddle, I would lay my head on your chest
and smell your pocket. It smelled like
raisins. One time when no one was around,
I took an old cigarette from the ash tray,
pressed it to my lips and sucked. It tasted like
dirt. I wondered where you kept the
raisin ones and if you would share
them with me when I was older.