This Is Not a Celebration of Our Fathers
Matthew Roberson

Our fathers, who once were young. Our fathers worked in the yard, planting whip-thin trees staked with line. They raked dirt in piles. They moved rocks. Our fathers worked shit in the soil and planted squash. Our fathers used wood-handled hammers. They had no skill with power tools, and we knew it. Our fathers drank beer from cans with tabs that popped loose with a tick. They gave us the last sip. Our fathers threw balls and sat, vague, in the grass. Our fathers bought bags of charcoal and cans of fuel that dimpled at the pressure of our thumbs. Our fathers gave us matches to light. What was there, then, but to lay on the meat with a puff of flame?