besito_papa erin PAPÁ by Erin Fernandez I have never dreamed of my father, And my true memories of him are dim and mysterious. I remember tweedy English hats, And green jackets with beige patches on the elbows. I remember the door opening in from the snow, Well past a reasonable bedtime. He would pick up my tiny body in one arm, And my sister in the other. He smelled like overnight hospital stays And maybe like coffee. Besito papá, besito. And he’d point to his cheek that was Jagged, tired, and rough from sleepless babysitting Of his patients’ hearts. We kissed his cheek and snuggled Against the sides of his face Even though it was gritty. He was papá, powerful and hard. Father was ten minutes at ten o’clock every night, He was coffee and tired and tweed. Family time meant his last ounce of energy Before the snatches of sleep. Our kisses were 10 minutes of peace, Our lives were worth 10 hours of work. 000905 what's it to you? who go blather from