Dad

We came down in the morning to crumbs on a plate

and a type-written letter praising us for being good.

It was signed in a scrawl we only saw once a year,

spindly and tall with curlicues on the “S” and “A”

that we knew were not from our mother’s even hand. 

Somehow we were unconcerned that he had had been

watching us to be sure we behaved, were deserving.

There were footprints on the hearth, the deep ruts

of men’s work boots imprinted on a pile of spilled ash.

I believed much longer than I should have, convinced

he wouldn’t go to so much trouble to sign the gift tags,

to shake ash on the hearth and step into it with careful

heavy feet, and hide carrot tops in a bowl on the roof

to discover when cleaning the gutters months later.

That streak of magic that no one expected made us so

easy to fool.  I drank up every bit of proof that it was real.

Yet when I finally accepted the he behind it all, there was

no disappointment, just the low, blue flame of wonder

at the efforts of that distant man, incapable of deceit,

who had been watching us year after year, his three

good girls, finding a way to tell us we were deserving.