the TV ran their interviews

with him recounting the plays

of the Super Bowl game when the guy

on the other team let the ball

fly right through his hands.

I was on my daddy’s shoulders when

the crowds grew smaller and the coach said

Maybe next game—you need some rest,

then looked up at me and smiled,

trying not to stare too hard

at my daddy’s shaking hands.

The First Time, Again

I used to be a tight end, my daddy says, laughing.

But what I really wanted to be was a wide receiver.

Now I’m just wide.

The first time he said it, we all laughed

even Mama

and she usually just smiles when something is funny.

The second time he said it, I said

It was funny the first time, Dad.

The third time he said it, I said You always say that.

No I don’t, this is my first time, he said.

Stop messing with me, Daddy.

No, YOU, my daddy said, stop messing with me!

My daddy never shouts. But he was shouting.

My daddy never cries. But he started crying then.

Tears

My daddy cried every day the year his father died.

He tells me this each time I scrape a knee

or stub my toe or watch a really sad movie

and try to hold back my tears.

I cried the whole year, my dad says.

Three hundred and sixty-five days.

But I wasn’t born yet, so I didn’t see it.

And two years later when his mom

lost her leg because of a disease called diabetes,

my dad said, he cried because he didn’t have the money

to make life comfortable for her. You know, he said,

a fancy wheelchair, ramps, a new house

where she didn’t have to pull herself up on her crutches

to reach for everything.

And two more years later, when he signed his first contract,

my daddy said he cried because

now he could buy that wheelchair

and that house and help his mother and his sister

move into it together

and see them cry happy tears.

But some days now, my dad sits at the window,

silent tears slowly moving down his face.

I don’t even know when his tears started.

I don’t even know when they’re going to end.

Real Fiction

On Saturday mornings

I read novels about stuff like guys running

or playing ball or just being with their friends.

“Realistic fiction.” I don’t know why

it’s not just called “real fiction” or why

I don’t want to read anything else anymore.

I like that it’s real people,

real stuff happening to them

in real time. In my books, nobody

jumps off a mountain, then bounces

back up to the top. Nobody can fly or

cast a lifesaving web

across the city. I wish.

But life doesn’t work that way.