Up every morning at 5 a.m.
Seated at the kitchen table, coffee in hand.
Eggs from his own chickens scrambled with toast.
A peck on her cheek before grabbing his lunchbox
And firing up his pick-up, confident it would start.
A day spent hammer or saw in hand
Transiter radio softly playing a country song
While he measures and cuts with precision
Notebook and pencil for calculations
Chalk-dust lines in blues and pinks.
Building houses for faceless buyers
Chasing the American dream on his watch.
Imagining the homes they’ll make within his walls.
Working as if each house would be his home.
Wishing he could afford to be their neighbor.
Weekends doing odd jobs for extra cash,
Gardening, hunting, fishing to clear his head
And fill the freezer bought on installment plan.
Badminton, riding bikes, teaching us card games,
Lawn chair in the yard; cold beer in hand.
That was my dad, an uncomplicated man
With dreams of a better life for his children.
Not a life interrupted by an unrelenting disease
Without cure and too far advanced to treat
Not a life ended before his work was complete.
Homes still standing; oblivious to their owner’s
Race, religion, sexual orientation, or age.
Built with care by a worker who loved his craft.
I’m proud to have held his calloused hands,
And I’ll always love the man in pinstripe overalls.