Published on: 5/6/2016
Dead Letter Office: William Harris (2)

Dear Dad:

Every writer has a secret editor
sitting on the shoulder, You were always
there for me, telling me what was wrong.
In school, in work, even on the golf course,
where I could match your scores.
You corrected my grip,
my stance, my swing. Nothing ever
perfect, ever good enough. In life or
in death, you sat and observed,
cool and articulate. You learned that young,
and well. You were saying, "Be better,
be worthy," but I couldn't hear that.
I never learned to recognize approval.
Not until much later,
when I cleared that great weight
from my shoulder.