It was the day I helped dad [1]
clean out the shed, when Sly, Jay Bird
and Rashad darted to our fence
for our neighborhood league.
Back then, we’d snag any open turf. [2]
Uniforms were street clothes
our parents bought the year before.
It was the Saturday of our fantasy [3]
playoffs, two teams of teens
whose lack of coordination meant
the ball slipped through shaky
hands like our chances of making the school squad.
We dreamed of screaming stadiums, [4]
cheerleaders boogying their beautiful bodies,
fans stomping the stands every time
one of us dove toward the end zone.
We were at that age when bragging rights
shined brighter than Super Bowl rings.
They asked if I could kick up the field with them. [5]
I frizzled when dad said, No, he’s busy.
That was the Saturday Mrs. Brown mulched
her rose bush and Mr. Graham set sprinklers
in a lawn that looked like AstroTurf.
That was the day I heard my boys [6]
laugh two yards over, yelling touch down!
I went back inside the shed to help dad [7]
move a spool of fat cables
before I saw black billows of smoke
over the shed before Mrs. Brown and
Mr. Graham called us out [8]
blazing near the two struck matches.
I watched Sly and Jay Bird break [9]
under the sun’s interrogative gaze. I watched
angry fingers aim blame at one another.
I watched, grateful dad said no,
that accusations weren’t huddled over me,
screaming: Why you lying!
You know you set that fire!
I lay in the grass, watching [10]
my friends’ parents whip them.
Rashad cried loud enough to scatter birds
from the lamp posts. That’s
“What My Father Said” from Point Blank by Alan King. Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
