Dad didn’t hug me
he whooshed past me through the kitchen
without noticing that it was the first
time today we’ve seen each other

and the ouch
of a hundred other mornings just like it
echoed in the unbridged
distance between us

this time I walk to the very edge,
throw my voice like a bundle
of rope to the other side
of the dining room
where he sits

he interrupts his silence and starts
to list off:
all the
things he
needs to
get
done

Dad, I am standing on the other
side of our Grand Canyon
throwing you a rope
praying that you catch it,
that you tie it on
to the part of you that woke up
when I was born, with the sure hands
that cut the stubborn umbilical cord
coiled around your new baby’s
bluing neck

Dad, I need you
to look at me long enough to catch
the end of my rope
and then tie it on
tight with one of those boy scout knots
that Papa, your dad, taught you
that you taught both my brothers
that you never taught me

Show me
that I’m not the only one of us
trying to connect