for dad, the 87th year

you would be 87 on Friday
and we would give you butter
with bread.

in my mind i stand in the old kitchen.
i smell your burnt toast
and hear you smile.
'it's good. it will put hair on your chest.'

competition for you was complex
and ran deep among us.
nine children needing
needing
needing
needing
needing
needing
needing
needing
needing.

for some, there was more than enough.
for others, there was never enough.
somewhere in the middle lies the truth.

i remember being on a ship in Canada after the divorce
and a woman told you what great legs you had.
your eyes lit up in confusion.

there were nine of us.
plus you, plus mom.
22 hands, 11 hearts
needing love, attention, bread, butter, forgiveness.

the earth has turned five years
and nine of us are all still down here in need.

somewhere out there,
as atoms or soul
in space and time and beyond,
i hope you realize how great your legs were
and how much hair we have on ours chests.