by Norah Pollard
My father was unable to hug me
or talk to me. He could never say
"I love you." He was too shy.
Too, his mind was in
another world.
But whenever he came home from his journeys,
he'd bring me presents--Little Lady Toilet Water,
that grand midnight blue Stetson,
those many Waterman and Parker pens,
the pocketbook with the brass eagle clasp.
And for all occasions, overblown cards
with the puffy scented satin heart or rose
on the ront. Inside, his scraggy signature,
"To my Paddy, from her Daddy."
When you did not give me
a Valentine today,
I was undone.
And I wept in the shower
even though I am an adult and know
gifts are materialistic shallow
commercially driven wasteful crap.
But why, why could you not have
Wasted some mute love on me?
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