After Robert Kroetsch's "Sounding the Name"

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In this poem my father is not drunk.

He does not phone me this December night

and beg me to invite him for Christmas.

I don’t pause beside the sliding glass door

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with phone in hand and watch the snowflakes sink,

and hope to get snowed in just once to be safe.

He does not tell me I must accept him

passing out on my couch before dinner

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in front of my young children, scaring them;

he does not call me narrow-minded

and I don’t have to say I don’t want

another generation harmed.

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I do not hang up on him,

don’t wheel the baby stroller up the hill,

don’t stare at flakes of snow under streetlight

cones of light like galaxies plunging.

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I do not wish he were dead.

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In this poem my father is not drunk.

He’s sitting on the couch, reading aloud

a picture book to his grandchildren.

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I’m mashing potatoes in the kitchen.

My father shows me how he stirs gravy.

I overcook the turkey just a little.