Father Poem by Joshua Cawthorne

Works hard with no qualms to put calices on the palms.
He’s a bread maker.
Some call them winners either way he always cooked dinner from this green funny paper.
He bathed us, carried us, nursed us, and beat our butts - well plucked us because we were
young.
That’s dad.
Got tired of beatings. He said just do the right thing.
Never mind that – got smacked. Whooping again. I laughed. Getting to old for this.
We start talking about the dark things but how to win with the right things.
That’s pops.
We only get one. No trade offs or trade-ins.
No downgrades or upgrades. Some good days some bad days.
This man has been here for days.
He’s grown I’m grown.
We talked and barked, sat and then stood, cried until we smiled.
Shared the deep things and thoughts of the Mighty One since these talking days begun.
The smartest one I’ve known.
Self-taught is best taught from development of thought.
Pass it on to the new born. Carried on in its new form.
Now I know what he’s here for.
That’s Father.
He’s been here. Still here. Stood here with no fear – My Father.