My father has a hole in his heart
David B. Prather

so the doctor tells my mother.
     I want to add my own commentary here,
          but that would be too easy.

The doctor says this defect sometimes occurs
     at birth, but the muscle will heal itself
          except in extreme cases. At least

that’s what my mother tells me,
     how she understood the conversation.
          I forget to ask her how they missed the defect

after his widow-maker,
     ninety-nine percent blockage, and three stents
          to keep those chambers twitching.

I forget to ask how they left him
     to suffer all those years.
          But then I think of my own suffering,

the lack of love, a child
     untouched by tenderness. I think
          of what’s to come, how my own body will break.

I already feel its entropy.
     The doctor could have said, Your father finds you
          a disappointment, and I still would have known

he was talking about my father’s ticker.
     It is a clock, isn’t it?
          One of those old wind-up timepieces

that eventually slows and stops.
     All I know is mainspring, oscillator, and escapement,
          and the way I measure time, hands over heart.

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David B. Prather’s Comments

My father is going through several health issues, and my mother calling to update me has been a seed to grow many new poems. The information about this heart defect led me directly to a metaphor about love and kindness. And even though I had to go to extremes in describing my relationship with my father, there is still love (the problem is that I am too much like him in many ways). This poem is part of a chapbook in process that explores the often toxic relationship between fathers and sons, as well as the toxic ideals of social patriarchy.

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