I wanted to see him running past

the 40, 30, 25, 20, 15, 10 . . . yard line.

I wanted to see him make the touchdown.

And if anybody got in his way,

I wanted to see him go into them hard.

Helmet to helmet, body to body.

Again and again and again until it was like

he’d pushed right through a concrete wall

that wasn’t concrete but was

defensive ends and linebackers . . .

Helmet to helmet . . .

My head hurts so bad . . .

Tonight, while me and Mama eat dinner and

Dad naps on the couch,

she tells me more about the doctor in Philadelphia.

They are studying the connection, she says,

between concussions and what’s happening to your dad.

She stirs her broccoli around on her plate. Most of her food’s

still there. Most of mine too.

He’s had so many of them, she says. Too many.

But no one seems to be sure of anything.

Mama pushes her plate away and looks at me.

In the dim light of the dining room,

her eyes are dark and sad.

There’s a penalty in football called holding.

You’re not supposed to tackle a player

who doesn’t have the ball.

You’re not supposed to snatch him and slam him down.

Or hold on to him.

But sitting there with my mom

and my dad snoring on the couch

and the doctors knowing but not knowing,

I feel like someone’s holding us,

keeping us from getting back to where we were before

and keeping us from the next place too.

The Broken Thing

There’s not a name for the way

Daddy’s brain works now.

The way it forgets little things like

what day it is and big things like

the importance of wearing a coat outside

on a cold day. There’s not a name

for the way I catch him crying

looking around the living room like

it’s his first time seeing it.

This morning, Daddy’s afraid to go outside.

I want to grab his hand and pull him

hard

past the front door into the daylight.

I want to yell at him, tell him it’s only

outside.

But I don’t. I just stand there

not knowing what’s supposed to come

after this.

I don’t know what’s out there, my daddy says.

Something big, he says. Something broken

that I don’t know how to fix.

Haiku for Daddy

After school, in the empty house, I eat a snack

and pull out my guitar.

Strum it soft then harder then soft again,

let the music

echo through the rooms. Practice what

my choir teacher told us, to bring the air up

from my stomach when I sing to

breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Daddy, you asked me

to write you a song. I said

I’d write a hundred.

I sing the haiku song I wrote for Daddy over and over,

until the empty house is filled up with something.

Music.

Words.

Breath.