Crackle & Drag

My father has no hands; he knows
very little about bees, or me,
thinks of long brown braids whenever
someone says my name.

My father’s rage is a crippled foot;
my father’s guilt is an untapped root.

My father has no hands; this rules out
telephones, and birthday cards, and
crueler things.

My father cannot kill deer anymore.
He is very disappointed.
He blames God, but it’s only
me.

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