I toss the shirt into the wash—
To rid it of its factory must.
A gift from my father,
Though he didn’t choose it.
My sister did—shopping
Being for him out of the question
This gift seemed more a duty
Being fulfilled. When I thank him
He looks at me blankly.
He has no idea.
Among all the gifts he gave
This the last
And he’s no idea
Why I kiss him, and kiss him again.
This gift, adrift of his love,
Like the card he could only mark
Bypassed him completely.
In this now the third week after his death
I toss a new shirt into the wash.
And watch it tumble then submerge
Along with every other thing there.