He

wasn't that kind of father,

the one who took his boy

to the river

and taught him how to fish;

that father who patiently

explained the Bunny Ears

method of tying his shoelaces,

There were no arms wrapped

around from behind

directing little fingers to

middle C, B flat.

In the spring his son stayed

in his room, protected from

hapless sticks or stones thrown

from the mower.

Nights were postponed for

his son, as they worked

and reworked,

at the dinner table,

classroom assignments,

because mistakes were not

allowed.

He wasn't the kind of father

who looked at his son

and saw a perfect little

human,

developing into a wonder child,

separate from himself,

an entity with its own

path to follow.

There were signs early,

at the boy's complicated

eighth month of gestation,

as his mother wrestled with

a blood clot in her lung, and

Dad had other priorities, leaving

two-year-old Big Sister

in Mom's hospital room until

the end of the Soccer game

across town.

No, he was a "Do as I say,"

"I know what's best

for you" kind of father,

"you must conform to society"

kind of dad,

leaving his son

unprepared to face the unique

life challenges of being different,

unable to recognize who

to trust and who to be

weary of,

vulnerable but incapable of

accepting the stamp of

autism.

No. Even after the father's death,

the son must be as flawless as

Naida Lavon

April 15, 2022

PCC Poetry class

Prompt: Start a poem where the title is one word

and leads directly into the poem