My father taught me to shave when I was six
with an orange teaspoon and a stool,
he bled.
I ripped pieces of toilet paper off the roll,
pressed them against his neck
and pretended I needed my own.
He taught me to speak both English and the truth
with an emphasis on the second.
His body,
was a mountain.
I planted my flag on his chest and took a nap,
woke up in a Packers shirt.
I can’t blame him for trying,
I’m his only son.
His callused hands and aching arms swallowed me like a dark hallway,
then threw me up and taught me to land on my feet.
I used to swim in his shoes
and stand on his toes when I looked up to him.
I haven’t stopped looking up to my father,
but I stopped swimming.
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