Writing to My Father

Writing to My Father


I circle around the hard truths
that hover above a stack of paper
and write of little things; I concentrate
on crossing my 't's
and leaving a half-inch space
between each word.
I do not ask
why our mailbox is left cold and empty,
its rough wood untouched;
I suspect
you are afraid of splinters.

I think
you fear this wood,
and the way
slivers, foreign and sharp,
could burrow beneath your skin:
a reminder that each year
your hands gather dryness,
as they creep
monotonously
toward their wrinkled solution.