This morning, the father’s back ached a little more
His bed begged him to stay, but no
Instead, he shaved black stubble off his chin
Rubbed the kinks and lines from his eyes
And put on his tweed suit with purple tie
This afternoon, the father’s boss yelled at him
Forgot to meet the deadline because he
Just didn’t have enough time
He sat through endless meetings
And pretended to laugh at jokes
“Nothing goes my way” seemed to be
The bleak motto of his day
This evening, the father came home
Feeling as dark as storm clouds
With an anvil pounding on his head
Then his little girl, with her tight curls
In solemn silence said, “For you, Daddy,”
Handed him torn weeds in chubby fist,
And it made all the difference.