Ink

my father's tattoos

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My father had a panther tattoo
On his right arm and a dragon tattoo
On his left arm. Or it might’ve been
The other way around. I last saw them

As he lay in his coffin. He was dressed
The way he’d lived, in pajama pants
And a short sleeve T-shirt, so his tattoos
Were visible. The panther and dragon

Were still telling their stories, though
I must confess that I don’t remember
Why or where my father received 
Those two ornate tattoos. But I do

Recall that my father had eagle feather
Tattoos on his shoulder blades—
Simple jailhouse sketches meant
To signify both his caged imprisonment 

And his eventual flight back home
To the reservation. He had a few dozen
Other tattoos here and there, amateur
Stuff, skin-doodles. I used to joke

That I was the black sheep of the family
Because I didn’t have tattoos 
But, in truth, I’ve just learned a different way
Of telling stories, like in this poem

Where I need to tell you that my mother
Only had one tattoo. Just two letters
On her right shoulder. Just “SH.”
Just the first two letters

Of my father’s name because
It hurt her too much to tattoo
The rest of it. Sometimes, love is
Abbreviated. Wait, wait, wait,

Wait, wait, wait, wait,
I just remembered the stories
Of my father’s beautiful tattoos.
He got the dragon because

He loved Bruce Lee
And he got the panther
Because he’d get drunk
And lie and claim that he was

A fierce soldier who fought
In the war. “Which war?”
We’d ask him and he’d say
“I fought in all of them.”