Tomatoes

I was sure that my father, who passed away a few years ago, never understood my desire to write poetry any more than my need to plant roses. Once, while visiting me, my father looked out over my extensive flower garden and said, “ you should plant tomatoes–you can’t eat roses.” Before winning the Matti Antilla poetry award from Fitchburg State College, I showed him the poem I intended to enter and joked that if I won the prize, I would earn money and I would be able to eat.

I was elated when I won that award. He was the first person I called to tell. I realized, shortly before his death, that he really did understand and indeed, took pride in my striving for and reaching a goal that was important to me.

Tomatoes

Little green shoots that sprout
between stalk and branch are suckers
he says for the hundredth time
as if he knows, for the hundredth time, I will forget
Pluck them off, make the main stems stronger, tomatoes larger

I murmur, yes dad
watch him reach around to his back pocket
pull loose one of the dangling strips of cloth
ripped from old tee shirts and faded pajamas
Gingerly, he ties a large branch to a stake

At his instruction, I squat beside each plant
spoon white powdered fertilizer into each little trench
he has scratched into the brown dirt
Not to close to the stalk now, he warns,
you’ll burn the roots”

When we finish the last plant
we carry our tools to the shed
Walking back to the house
he doesn’t look back to admire our handiwork
For the hundredth time I fail to tell him
when it is my turn, I will plant roses