First Class Ticket
(for my father)  

We must have seemed odd traveling companions-- 
a flustered father and his newborn child 
fumbling with diapers 
on a flight across three time zones.

In 1963 fathers were distant creatures, 
slightly larger than life. They did not fly 
on a day's notice to claim a child 
of uncertain parentage. They did not leave 
wife and daughter behind with a kiss and a promise. 
I will bring home something very special.

I imagine the ease 
with which you introduce me. 
This is my daughter. 
No hesitation or stammer in your voice. 
When you get to my favorite part of the story, 
I watch your eyes. 
They are steel gray to my blue.

Forty years later you still chuckle 
about the fancy lady in the fur coat. 
How she swooped over both of us on the plane. 
I've never had children, but I can do a better job 
with that than you. You let her change me
even though you knew it wasn't true.

Mom met us at the airport, 
aunts and uncles, friends holding their breath. 
She was afraid to hold me, 
afraid to let me go.  

That was the day you carried me 
so much further than the distance between two coasts.