Prisons

Pop, my mother's father, had tattoos:
a green cross and a green snake.
I don't remember when those tattoos
became synonymous with his time in prison.

My biological father's prison was a prison of lies.
Lies can be more permanent than tattoos. 
The lies he told, a scorned woman murdered him for those.
And his ink, I couldn’t tell you if I inherited
a birthmark from him, let alone what he put on his body. 

My first step-dad (the father of my sister) had no secrets
meaning more ink than skin.
When we came to his prison,
my older brother, my little sister, and me,
we'd dig by the fence with plastic sporks
and talk about how it’d be when he was home.

Talk to no strangers when visiting prisons.
Talk to no one at the vending machine.
When I piss by myself, because my mom can’t go with me,
she says, ain’t no one in there, but I’m scared anyway. 
Hell of a lesson for 3rd grade to know Jasper 
for its prison rather than its sports complex.

My next step-dad's prison was desert storm.
Tattoos of boots, with a rifle pointed at the sky,
straight as a flag pole, hung helmet, and dog tags.
All he knew was drills and kicking
our things into the wall,
and how to make my mother sleep
on the couch like a dog bothering him in the night.

We'd hear her there and give her compliments
until we all fell asleep.
He showed us all how to clean
a terrapin and make turtle soup
black-water fish, pick the best dog
in a litter, and hunt hogs.

Desert storm made sure my brother and I knew
how to ride in the back of the truck in the rain
for demanding he respect our mom.
I’d feel the truck slam to a halt
like when he’d kill deer with his brush guard.
I’d watched the man kill
and still I’d expect him to check on me, 
but what he says is make hotdog sandwiches.

My last step dad is the most like the father
I lost: very particular, lets the spiders do their work,
runs dogs, just a few
low-quality tattoos. The difference,
“he doesn't want to be my dad,”
but he’s the one at all my graduations.
Tied my tie before I graduated high school
and university. Tied my tie at my wedding because “he’s better at it.” 
By the time my daughter can walk, he is her favorite.
All these things that were meant for Pop but Pop passed away
before he could see. 

The time I do is vascular:
always making sure my daughter has 
the ability to leap from both feet,
to speak.
The thought is there, a parent shouldn’t 
outlive their babies, I shouldn’t have it 
in the back of my mind, the real
estate on my body that I would give. 
Please, Lord, let it be my name that’s written. 
It is no surprise I run
dogs, and let the spiders stay,
my tattoos, tell stories,
I only sit for them if it’s like solitary, for hours.
And I pay cash. I know the deal. 
This latest one is a stone ship on rocky bluffs
overlooking the sea. 
I buried my father. 
That’s the way it should be.