The Ground

I think my dad thinks he apologized to meToday in my backyard. We were on ourKnees. We were not praying, thoughI understand us as men dedicatedTo the ground in a religious way.Behind my home on our four kneesNot praying but digging, we searchedFor something I can’t rememberAmong rows of collards and tomatoesI wanted him to see because a boy willShow off for his dad even afterHe is a man. The sun burned on, andI got a tad nervous about digging onceI caught the tail end of a snake or thoughtI did as I pulled up clumps of black earthWith my bare hands, still less wrinkledThan his. I can’t remember whyI would have my daddy bent in the dirtDigging like a mammal with me becauseHe stopped to wipe his foreheadWith the back of his sweaty forearmAnd said, “I suppose you think you couldHave done everything without meBeing hard to you” and went silent as ifTo acknowledge I had any perspectiveAt all on my early life as it relates to hisCracked, clayed hands that hit whomeverHad a heartbeat in his house, the first oneI ever called home. I don’t rememberA thing after that silence and very littleFrom before-Have I eaten today?Yesterday? Did I ever eat or am IA hunger growing food that can’t satisfy Me?I am bereft but must haveGuided him up when he finally stoodAgain, and I do know neither of us cried.God is in the ground, which is whereThe living go when they die. That oldMan can’t make me cry no more no more.