Bad Uncle
a poem for Father’s Day
June 15 2025
I watch the fathers in the park
playing as dads.
They call their kids buddy.
Hug unselfconsciously.
Do stuff around the house
we once called women’s work.
While proper names
were good enough for us.
We rarely hugged;
but if we did, somehow barely touched
if at all.
And it was understood
that the man of the house
was the hard-working provider;
he didn’t bake bread
he won it.
It was hard to say I love you
so it simply wasn’t.
But back then, you spoke when you were spoken to,
so there was much that was left
unsaid.
When I think of fatherhood
I tend to capitalize;
Father of our country
. . . Our Father in heaven
. . . the Fatherland.
Stern men, and patriarchs,
the Founding Fathers
out in the world
instead of home.
But the dads throwing baseballs
and playing tag
are just one of the boys.
I imagine that they’re OK with “Motherland”,
and open to the thought
of a female God
if not a fluid gender one.
Perhaps their wives
earn more than them.
I, childless, sit on a park bench
a little envious,
watching the playful dads
taking care.
They aren’t playing at fatherhood
they’re fathers at play.
Dads, in other words.
What kind would I have been?
Divorced, step, part-time?
Bad tempered and coercive
or the bumbling sit-com version?
Authoritarian father?
Authoritative partner?
Laissez faire dad?
I’m at best a bad uncle,
so might I have somehow become
a good buddy?
A hugger
who doesn’t flinch?
A bed maker
and decent baker
who even cleans up
after himself?
The sort of man
who has no trouble saying love?
And not only saying, but practicing it
in a neighbourhood park
some Sunday afternoon;
a game of catch
or playing tag,
last one standing wins.
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