I've never seen my father's chin
the photographs told me there was a deep cleft there
one that you would notice on first meeting him
maybe even describe him to your friends
as the man with the mischievous eyes and cleft chin
but I've never seen it, never known him that way
Mom says his care takers never knew him, really
never heard him belly laugh
never tried to follow a pun he'd worked out in his head
for hours, maybe days
to get a courteous chuckle from someone
who didn't get the connections, didn't get the joke
never knew him as an artist in sheeple clothing
the thick dark beard an act of rebellion
when men wore grey suits, and took the train
and carried briefcases, and raised three girls
I'd bury my fingers in that beard when I wanted to feel safe
head on his warm chest
he'd mellowed out by the time I crawled into that lap
broken in and softened by the other two
we liked figuring things out together
why is the sky blue? how many rubber bands can we put on a slingshot?
where do black holes go? what kind of a person lies?
he had the answers but didn't give them
he told me to figure it out, read a book, make a decision
be responsible for the consequences
he told me there was no mistake that could make him stop loving me
he told me to go and make a life
why not? he said