Leaving the memory of my father’s persistent presence

I keep my dad at
arm’s length and
a timezone away.

As for my mom, I 
haven’t seen her since 
before I married.

She used to say children need 
to be bitten to learn the pain of teeth.
And that my smile fools everyone, but her.

Now, I surround myself with 
Minnesota niceties,
gelatin salads, hot dish casseroles.

When my life was in Worcester, 
I’d eat grilled muffins at Annie’s diner,
across from Saint Peter’s Parish, where 
my dad frequented frayed plastic booth seats.

I used to think home 
was where my dad was, 
but there is sorrow 
between every triple decker and
the hospice bed he died in
in a vinyled apartment, 
half underground.

There is the time he walked me 
up Oread Street to the community
garden for my first day of work. 

We rounded the barred windows 
of the corner store 
that sells single cigarettes
to my dad who never has 
more than a dollar in his pocket.

The plot I planted, a half acre foot
print still laden with lead paint from a 
burned down building. The city,
still cleaning it up.