The Reason Why I’m Fat

I thought my father was far too fat – eagerly I told him so,
if he was offended it didn’t show and I don’t recall
where that strange conversation went. Now I know
he was offended – as I am too, it is not a jibe to
pass off lightly, no matter who accuses you of it
or which sadly taut excuse you try and use
in your defence. If I ever envied fathers who
dressed like kings and knew how to wear
their clothes to express the dreams
they had for their son’s imaginary futures
I did not know my envy. I certainly knew
chic and what was not but the thought
my father might have taught me that
would induce a lot of laughter.
Now I smile at such melancholy thoughts,
smile and muse on how the wheel has turned,
smile and wince, sad to hear you say the things
I knew would grate against my dad.
In those long lost years he never set a goal
so high or target that I could not reach,
challenges I could not meet, he simply
made it so I kept my feet on solid ground
and set my dreams to run where life abounds;
never did he threaten me, abbreviate the crazy
schemes a young man has to have, indeed
he taught me well and gave me space to be
the things he patently was not, at least to me,
and I grew into the place that makes me, yes,
your father. I am proud of you, unreservedly,
and gladly say there is my son. He is the tall,
thin one. And that, I say to you, is the reason why I’m fat.
© I.D. Carswell