Finding My Father
       

Years after his death, my father came to me
in a dream, walking up from the trim,
grassy slope behind my grandfather's house.
He was smiling, looked rested,
his face and body had fleshed out.
He'd gotten some color back.
He wore a white button-down shirt,
navy blue sweater, tan pants and shoes.
It was close to what he was buried in—
the compromise with my mother as we
picked out the clothes. I wanted
his flannel and denim, she wanted the suit.

In the way of dreams, my father and I
both knew he had died and would die
again in a little while. But first,
we would have time. We would talk.
Sit with the quiet. He would let me
lean against him, curl into his arm,
and when I cried, he wouldn't pull away
or say, "There now, we'll have none of that."

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Copyright © 2021 Deborah Pope All rights reserved
from Take Nothing
Carnegie Mellon University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission