My Father’s Seed
by Mark Melnicove
All day in the garden I looked
for a spot to plant
that seed my father gave
me without saying what
it was. A curious pip,
not speaking, it nearly split
open before touching ground
and slipping in for a restless
germination. I thought I might
see my father again,
that he might check up on me
or the embryo, but his gift
was clearly a farewell
gesture, leaving me watering
a whisper of a rumble in soil.