It’s Father’s Day
and I wasn’t planning on writing anything.
Didn’t feel like it.
My dad’s gone now.
I remember him teaching us poker
at the kitchen table,
like it was something important,
like reading or tying your shoes.
And then later
watching him down at the marina
taking money from fishermen
like he’d been studying them his whole life,
like he knew something they didn’t.
He did the best he could.
I’ve got kids of my own.
Two sons. Two daughters.
I know I wasn’t always patient.
There were nights
the drinking got in the way
of who I should have been.
I’d like to say I’d do it all differently,
but the truth is
you don’t always know better
until it’s already behind you.
I hope they understand someday,
how much I love them,
how much of this
was me trying
and not always getting it right.
He did the best he could.
I did the best I could.
Maybe that’s what gets passed down,
not perfection,
just the attempt
and the hope
it lands a little softer
the next time around.