The Gift
An envelope arrived
with a handwritten return address:
“DAD” in uneven block print.
It’s not stiff enough for polaroids
of bass
or lake trout
or northern pike
proof of fishing prowess.
Dyslexia shame usually
drove him to the telephone.
I tore it open, a generous check
and a folded note in his own hand:
“Pay your credit card debt,
a gift from your Dad.”
Again, the you’re-not-good-enough-
to-manage-yourself beating stick.
I wrote, “it’s none of your business,”
returned the check, crumpled.
A week later, another envelope with
the same handwritten return address.
Inside, the check smoothed
and a new note:
“This is a gift because
you are my son.”
Robert Tobias challenges himself to excavate accumulated layers of baggage to uncover his emotional roots so what is written on the page is felt in his heart and understood in his mind in order to make an authentic heart/head connection with a reader.
He started out hoisting bumpers on the Corvair assembly line before he became a union general counsel, sued Presidents and the union members elected him President. Eventually he became a Professor teaching leadership. He traveled from a blue to a white collar world and is now a poet with the leisure to explore the trip.
