Daddy's Home
My dark tower,
so strong and stoic in your white suit
made milky from the constant stream of sweat
salted with your anger, determination, and pride.
Stains of the latest rage
added to your uniformed rainbow.
I wondered what color you would end up?
Like the smell of kerosene, I followed you
through the kitchen, into the bathroom.
There I stood, holding up the door frame,
submerged in the sound of water and
the quick fragrance of dollar-store soap,
watching your every move,
my Daddy, the apple of my eye.
You turned the cleansing bar
in your hand with no effort; dropped it
back into its porcelain place.
Back and forth, your hands
made more and more bubbles.
Over and over, you turned them
under the faucet, as if the water would
rinse away more than the day’s work.
Your graying hair was dusted
with their chips of paint.
Someone else’s disregarded memories
brought into our home
to be swept away by the one
who smiled and made everything better with a good supper.
Don’t sigh Daddy.
One day we’ll repaint our home,
make it brighter, newer, better and
someone else will sweep our memories
from their floor.
Copyright © Amanda Griffith | Year Posted 2005
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