Father's Day

I change accents when I speak
to you, as though I become
more palatable than the son
the village raised, less disrespectful,

less American. It is the last
vestige of civility, a lace veil
permitting ignored light, allowing
coexistence while you still hold
to the old ways like roman candles
in your fists, burning at both ends.

I soften my voice when I come home,
to allow you to save
what remains of the amassed
scorch marks once called
your face. You still search
for your son.

I am only me, but
perhaps you will find
him alongside my dad,
wandering dreamscapes
together.

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