Gift

I bring my father his dream—
his daughter at last returned
presenting him the spoils
of absence—cash, gadgets,
a bottle of something
naughty but not-too-strong.

I bring him his legs
—sturdy, with brand new knees—
exchange them for the wheeled
chair I had sent years ago
when they finally failed
falling into a bowed “O”
under his weight.

I bring him back
the years of distance,
when our shared silence
made the ocean between us
impassable, our voices
lost to its crashing waves.
The days pour out our songs.

I bring him back our bear hugs,
playful tugs on his afro,
back scratches and laughter
that slaps both our knees. A mouth
hungry for whatever emerges
from his ever-bubbling pot.

I bring him his reflection
grinning though my face,
our matching squints and sighs.
I bring him back his name
unburied from my tongue—
Daddy, I say, I’m home.