gone thirteen years now
plenty of time for anger to subside, to
forget he never said I was pretty,
stop being wistful when
women talk about being
daddy’s girl.
he had many good qualities: smart,
hardworking, uncomplaining
generous, forgiving, energetic, funny;
he wrote poetry, collected
art, subscribed to the
Book of the Month club.
Praise him a self-made man
raised in a cold water tenement
on Delancey Street
so poor he slept on two chairs
pushed together
studied law riding the subway
on his way to sweep floors in a factory;
played ball on weekends; said
nothing came easy because
nothing came easy;
married my mother, always
congratulated himself for
winning her hand except at the end
when she broke her hip,
lost her marbles,
then he sent her to me; but the middle
part was great.
Praise him because
though he was a homely, Jewish guy
with kinky hair glasses
and big nose
he looked swell in a suit and tie
his sisters lined up next to him all
bouffant and manicured:
a success story and well deserved.
Praise him even
if he wasn’t that crazy about me;
who could blame him
I’m not that crazy about me either.
