Our Dead Fathers

Fathers seldom die in their own bed.
They slip in the tub, choke on a machine
in bloodless ways you never imagined
or hoped or feared.

Neither a blessing nor curse,
just a life cut short or one lived too long.

          The blood they no longer need
          is drained to a pail.
          Arms that held babies 
          and worked all their lives 
          hauling a thousand bundles, 
          and mending unfixable things
          are folded together 
          in uneasy prayer,
          their bruises 
          visible to all.