The Blood of My Father

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You were like a small man, curly haired,
wild and busy handed.
You climbed the tree, far up the branches.
You picked the plums, dropping each one
into the palm of my hand.
This is what I think about most days,
alone, leaning against the barn
of whatever farm I find myself on.
My broken back aches
from years of picking lettuce in Ontario,
which is all my brown hands are good for.
I remember when I was young,
when I sat behind the red barn,
worn by wind and years, hiding from the sun,
drinking whiskey between shifts.
I remember the midday rain
pressing against the broad, wooden, walls of the barn,
like a kiss from the sky. El Patron sent us home,
but I had nowhere to go.
Your mother found me outside the bar that day.
Some gringo stabbed me; I bled dizzy,
lying on the cold, sticky, asphalt in the parking lot.
She was kind enough to take me to the hospital,
my stench intruding on her perfect life,
Mexican blood on her immaculate, vinyl seats.
I remember her eyes, gleaming, baby blue as her 57' Chevy.
Her hair was the soft shade of a nectarine.
She owed me nothing.
I remember mistakes.
I stare at the sea on the beach in Mazatlan;
the salty mist from the waves crashes against the rocks
sticks to my beard, my lips, and I pretend you are near me.