Happy Father's Day. You know who you are.

A little poem for you on Father's Day. It's also Juneteenth, and it's my eighteenth wedding anniversary. Did I write this for Tom? Yes and no. Tom is the dad I celebrate today since my own father is gone. 

Fathers teach you how to brown butter and make cookies.

But I also wrote this for my friends who are fathers beyond the stereotypical understanding of the term: those who have not biologically created or adopted children, those who care for children as professionals, those who offer guidance or mentor young people, women and single mothers (or military spouses like me) who feel a distinct pressure to serve in ALL parental roles, people who are not limited by the mother/father binary, people whose relationship with fatherhood is complicated and seems like too much to say to well-wishers on a random Sunday.

My five sisters and I were raised by a single mother. When I was little, my oldest sister, Amy, saved her babysitting money to buy my mom a wicker chair set for Father's Day. Our neighbor drove her. I remember feeling like I had the best father on the block. (And a pretty decent sister.)

So happy Father's Day. You know who you are.

⚜

How to Be Celebrated on Father's Day

They'll say you ought to be a man.
But they say that every day,

not just today, and they say it
with words and without:

making you wait longer in line,
ignoring your calls, dismissing

your blurred vision or blood.
You can do anything, bleeding.

On Father's Day, they'll expect you
to cook with fire.

Remind yourself that you've been
leaning over flames as long as anyone

but if burgers sound good,
go ahead and brush off the grill.

There is nothing confusing
about charcoal, propane, knives,

or a hungry mouth, just as
there is nothing unknowable

about engines, a light switch,
or giving away what you've earned.

Drink a beer full of bubbles
or don't, opt for scotch or don't,

but at some point, sip like the king
you are today, like each swallow

is a toast to your mental health,
and fatherhood practiced by

each of us, singers of lullabies,
the bone-weary and brave,

my dear fathermothers, father figures,
people who care what happens,

our shoulders equally perfect
for piggyback rides and crying,

our generosity ungendered
and informed by more than parenthood.

I raise my glass to hands that fold
and bathe and braid, eyes

that stay open far too long
so that someone else can rest.

Any father worth a family will say
it's your day, you deserve it.