My Father by Dan-Vy Nguyen

My Father by Dan-Vy Nguyen

The ones his age who shook my hand,

Placed a hand on my shoulder,

Looked down at me with sorrowful eyes,

Told me it’s all going to be okay.

I know I’m going to be okay.

I don’t need to be treated like a baby.

I can take care of myself.

I’m a big kid now.

I can stay home by myself.

I am not scared of the dark.

I can me my own cereal.

I can stay up until nine.

The ones his age who shook my hand,

Told me they’re sorry for my loss,

How great they thought he was,

How they would miss him so much,

What a great father he was,

How he loved me so much,

That I was the most important person in his life,

That he did everything he could for me.

The ones his age who shook my hand,

I wanted to believe them.

They seem so nice and genuine,

But that wasn’t how I saw him.

The ones his age who shook my hand

Didn’t see that he was never home,

That he never went to any

Of my tennis matches.

They didn’t see

How he treated me when we’re alone.

They didn’t see

Him let me cry myself to sleep.

They didn’t see

The bruises he left on my arm.

They didn’t see

That he wasn’t the man everyone thought.

The ones his age who shook my hand,

Didn’t know who my Father really was.

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Men at My Father’s Funeral by William Matthews

The ones his age who shook my hand   

on their way out sent fear along   

my arm like heroin. These weren’t   

men mute about their feelings,

or what’s a body language for?

And I, the glib one, who’d stood

with my back to my father’s body

and praised the heart that attacked him?   

I’d made my stab at elegy,

the flesh made word: the very spit

in my mouth was sour with ruth

and eloquence. What could be worse?   

Silence, the anthem of my father’s   

new country. And thus this babble,   

like a dial tone, from our bodies.