Your Dad

He doesn't accept compliments, your dad.
If a job is done well it'll be "There you go"
never thank you,
because he wanted to do it better.

His hair began to dwindle.
Black tufts gave way to silver filigree
and he joked about how he'd have a stroke
and you tried to find it funny too.

Together you watched Hitler documentaries
and visited airports or caves,
(breathing paraffin and guano)
and scraped your knees...

And you cried when he laughed at your busted knee
(the one that still clicks when it bends)
and when you fell off your bike
and swore you'd never ride again.

Because you wanted it all to be better,
you wrote to him, but you cried then too,
hearing his laugh, that click in your knee,
and wished you could laugh too.