Father’s Day

by Philip Nikolayev

So I know full well that Father’s Day
was invented by the marketing industry
in a bid to separate us from more
of our long-suffering income.
Still, what do you suppose,
I wait all day like an idiot
for my 18-year-old to wake up,
anxious to see if she’ll remember.
Right, I am no better than any dad,
not superior to anyone.  I sit writing poetry,
blah blah blah blah blah blah blah,
and I wait, I wait, I wait. Then she wakes up,
I can hear her, and I’m like…  I mean, I’m thinking,
she’s up, she’s up, she’s up…
(Idiot me.)  And she does indeed remember,
sweetheart. She hugs me tight,
no “Happy Father’s Day,” no gift (which is best,
save the expense), she just says,
“I love you so much, even if I sometimes swear at you.”
“It happens,” I say, “It happens.  Thank you.”
Tears in stupid old eyes,
all four of them, till I can see nothing.
“It happens,” I say.  And thank you, marketing,
you are not all bad, I admit,
for exploiting our humanity for profit,
but in a way that we can be grateful for
to the point of tears.