Poetry Of Fatherhood 2007

Father’s Day Poem ~ Nathan First, 2004 Saved, Remembered, Found: a father’s day poem—a toast (and cleverly veiled roast) for Father’s Day 2004, received from our son, Nathan, then a single scholar just moved to British Columbia, and today married and moving into their first owned home in Columbia, Missouri—still far too far away. -- Fred First

For the times you crushed between your fingers something sweet-smelling, or sharp-smelling, or minty-smelling, or putrid, and shoved it toward my nose, saying, “Nature snort;”

A Father’s Day Poem For Dad, 2004

For all the times we’ve called each other “smart-ass,” audibly or otherwise;

For all the times you made me hold that damned ladder; For all the times you said, “if you throw that tennis racquet again, we’re going home,” and I threw the tennis racquet again, and we went home; For that time you wanted to go hiking in the Smokies, and I wanted to go to Amy Harris’s pool party, and I pitched such a fit halfway to the Smokies that you turned the car around and drove us home at breakneck speeds, only to

For all the arguments we’ve had about religion, and all the agreements we’ve had about politics;

For every time you should’ve made fun of me for the way I split wood, and the vast majority of times that you did; For all those really stupid ideas I’ve had, which you vehemently opposed, until you knew I’d go through with them anyway, at which point you supported me; For all those trips I’ve taken, and you’ve secretly worried about, even while you tried to project all your concerns for me onto “my mother;” For teaching me to light the water heater—and to rake with full, efficient strokes, and curse at the weed-whacker, and spread the peanut-butter clean out to the crust; For all the creative ways you punished me, with just enough consequence to sting, and just enough humor to tell stories about later;

give in half an hour later after I pitched another fit, and we went to the Smokies, and had a nice time; For beating me every time at every sport and every game, many years after I was sure I was better than you; For the thirty-seven times you told me the name of the same green-metallic beetle, while each time I was thinking about some girl or some song I’d like to write, or some song I’d like to write about some girl, only half an hour later to see a green metallic beetle, and wonder what kind it was;

For finding your craft, your voice, and a fulfilling sense of place—for living my aspiration and giving me a sense of belonging, even as odd as I feel to live vicariously through my father; For all those times, all those lessons, all your friendship and love, this father’s day I bought you an ice-cold bottle of beer, Which I’m drinking now as I write you this poem, All the while thinking, man, he would’ve enjoyed this. Thanks, Dad. Love you. I’ll spot you that beer sometime. -- NLF