Daddy's Girl

With his long hair flying
like cape around his ears
and his beard in need of shearing,
a cool, cool man
bulging on his meaty arm,
right below Regina’s name…
(My mother’s name is not Regina.)
pants always hanging below
his Bud Light belly
and Santa Claus eyes twinkling
behind mountains of hair.

Daddy’s neck was as red
as a shiny new ‘vette, and
he was always putting
some car or another up on blocks
and slithering underneath. I
could have recognized those legs anywhere.
Faithfully, I’d say “goodnight” and wait
for “Night pun’kin,” or better yet,
“Hand me that 3/8ths wrench.”
In bed, my lullaby was
the ball-peen hammer against sheet metal
or the hiss of a paint gun.

When he discovered I was a girl,
there were no more trips to the brake shop--
where they sold eight-ounce Cocolas
in the chest machine.
Instead I was relegated to The House,
Mother’s Domain,
where things were always orderly,
my hair was always combed,
my greasy jeans, with their
holes at the knees, and my
“Daddy’s Little Girl” tee-shirts
were traded for neat dresses
and clean fingernails.