My dad likes to say “we’re blood”

Blood from the same source, the same place, we come from the same people on the same timeline

My dad who knows so much

That I forget he doesn’t know everything-

Who can tell me the history of the New York Mets but not how to spell

“separate”

My dad tells stories like they’re gospel and not just memories

Tales of his time

And the old days 

Of my grandma making sauce over a stove

And my grandpa taking him to work on wall street

And our Family-

My sister

Acts like she’s above it, like she’s at a distance

Held out by the length of an arm

She sings and sings and acts and performs

Like Broadway is some place far away

And not just a toss away,

Close enough to stop by for dinner

I admire her

And her independence and her will to be free

But sometimes I wonder

Why she wants to sail away

My brother is a stone and a rock and a buoy

He bobs along our bay and doesn’t delve so deep,

What do I know?

Nothing that he doesn’t tell, and what can I know if he’ll only sometimes say

My father the story

My sister the song

My brother the secret

Our “blood”: My family,

My dad says we're blood