What My Father Said

It was the day I helped dad

clean out the shed, when Sly, Jay Bird

and Rashad darted to our fence

and, still panting, said

they needed a fullback

for our neighborhood league.

Back then, we’d snag any open turf.

Uniforms were street clothes

our parents bought the year before.

It was the Saturday of our fantasy

playoffs, two teams of teens

whose lack of coordination meant

the ball slipped through shaky hands

like our chances of making the school squad.

We dreamed of screaming stadiums,

cheerleaders boogying their beautiful bodies,

fans stomping the stands every time

one of us dove toward the end zone.

We were at that age when bragging rights

shined brighter than Super Bowl rings.

They asked if I could kick up the field with them.

I frizzled when dad said, No, he’s busy.

That was the Saturday Mrs. Brown mulched

her rose bush and Mr. Graham set sprinklers

in a lawn that looked like AstroTurf.

That was the day I heard my boys

laugh two yards over, yelling touch down!

I went back inside the shed to help dad

move a spool of fat cables

before I saw black billows of smoke

over the shed  before Mrs. Brown and

Mr. Graham called us out 

to see a planted torch blazing

near the two struck matches.

I watched Sly and Jay Bird break

under the sun’s interrogative gaze. I watched

angry fingers aim blame at one another.

I watched, grateful dad said no,

that accusations weren’t huddled over me,

screaming: Why you lying! You know

you set that fire!

I lay in the grass, watching

my friends’ parents whip them.

Rashad cried loud enough to scatter birds 

from the lamp posts. That’s 

when I ran home.