For you, Dad

You find me too dramatic

in my condemnation of the day,

my gaveling of words,

my proclamations on display—

—You’ve said I’m like a slipstitch

weaving through the good,

trying patiences and appetites

while coddling the crude.

I cannot count the scoldings

I’ve endured from son to dad!

Your wagging finger sentencing

my worst, my worse, my bad—

—You never listen to me,

you never try to hear!

You never crack the simple truth

that stubborn parents fear.

—What’s that, my son?

what truth have you ensnared

that we in decades living well

have somehow never shared?

You’ll find it plain and crass,

I’m sorry to admit — but

all this vile foment

has me chomping at the bit—

To be a better someone,

someone wiser than before —

someone besting even you, Dad,

despite the great you wore—

But sons don’t tell their fathers

they will do one better than,

they simply rile, and writhe, and wriggle

to become the better man.