waiting to drag it through the mud.

I should know.

I didn’t turn up with no bastards,

not exactly, no, but I could have

and yes, she only knows half the story

about that sonofabitch first husband of mine,

old enough to be my father,

left me alone so he could run around

with a white waitress, what was her name?

Did I ever know it?

Anyway, left me at the mercy of another man,

left me with her.

I plan to tell her the whole truth one of these days.

She’s already suspicious.

Who wouldn’t considering how she looks?

Took after her real father.

I just tell everybody it’s our Indian blood.

“She’s Indian,” I say,

if anybody asks me about her,

but if you really “look” at her,

you see the Japanese.

You see Mike Ogawa, that’s who,

on his knees,

taking off my penny loafers and socks,

see him kissing my toes,

so I tingle all over and go weak.

I know I shouldn’t,

but I can’t even open my mouth

to let his tongue in,

just have to lie back

and feel as if the whole world

is one big candy apple,

red and juicy just for me,

until reality comes knocking at the door

nine months later.

What a sound.

After Mike leaves me the last time,

I see what I’ve done

without the blinders on,

but it’s too late.

I don’t want her to end up like that.

I want her to come in the kitchen,

while I make a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich

the way I used to when she was a little girl

and it was the two of us against the world,

not just her against me,

but she won’t because now I am her enemy.

I’ve only tried to make her see how empty

what she thinks is love can be.

That Martinez boy is half like her,

Mexican and Negro,

not a bad combo as it goes.

They’d have pretty children,

but I know he’d hurt her.

Pretty men are useless.

She needs a toothless old fool

she can control,

but some of them are cruel too

and use a young girl, yes they do.

I should let her get her kicks

on the old Route 66 of heartbreak, I guess,

but I am too old to clean up the mess,

no she’s going to college.

She’ll make something of herself, unlike me.

I let my chances disappear between my legs

more than once and look at me now,

doing housework,

not making enough money to dress my girl

the way she deserves.

I ought to tell her about her father,

just call her out here

but I won’t, it’s too soon

and tomorrow I won’t speak to her either

when she gets up the courage

to ask me to pass the sugar,