Only now, after decades, even after his death,
is the smoke finally clearing from that room
where I was kneeling on the brick hearth
making a fire—something, after all,
that my father had taught me how to do—
when he walked in from work, in a business suit,
to find the kitchen filling up with smoke
because I’d forgotten to open the flue.

And not until now have I bothered to consider
what might have happened at the office that day
or whether it was simply his frustration
at ceaselessly battling his acerbic teenage son
that led him to say, “You don’t know how to do
anything right,” then shoulder me out of the way
as he crouched down and reached his blue-sleeved arm
above the flames to find the damper’s latch.

At long last, I wish I hadn’t told him
to shut up, and can let go of my indignation
at the way he lunged for me, grabbed me by the arm,
and tried to spank me as if I were a child,
only managing a glancing blow as I pulled free
and made for the door, not looking back
until now to see him standing there
bewildered and alone in that smoke-clogged room.