So far, I haven't shared one of my own poems for this challenge, but today is Father's Day, and no one else wrote a poem about my dad, so I'll indulge just this once. I wrote this a few years ago, after one of his brothers committed suicide. My dad is a quiet sort, not what you'd call demonstrative, but he cares deeply. I tried to capture that here.

A Real Fixer-Upper

You know Joe.
He can fix anything.
If it runs on gas,
electricity, water, or wind.
He can make it work,
make the wheels spin,
the dials read true,
the floors level.
He can fix anything.

Anything but people.

Not that he didn’t try.
Not that fixing you
wasn’t on his to-do list.
Just that he couldn’t do it--
couldn’t give you a reason
if you lacked one,
couldn’t still the voices
that mocked you alone
in the darkness, goading you
to the edge you finally stepped over.

And you were a real fixer-upper,
a labor of love. The drugs
had thrown all your systems
into disrepair. The drink
rusted the joints it once oiled.
Despair had threatened
the whole structure more than once.

But he never gave up on you.

I did.
She did.
Probably we all did.
More or less.

But not Joe.

But you know Joe.
He can fix anything.
Anything that wants fixing.
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