by Patricia Jones
He’ll apologize for his truck breaking down
while he’s parked on your flower bed,
picking up that heap of crap he swears
he’ll turn into a motorcycle
But he’ll never apologize for who he is.
He’ll remember to take off that ratty old hat,
when he walks into your grandma’s kitchen
to say howdy over a strong cup of coffee
before fixing her water heater.
But don’t expect him to cut the hair
that falls out from underneath.
He’ll sit in a tree stand when it’s fifteen below
and take perfect aim at a twelve point trophy buck.
He’ll miss the shot on purpose when his little girl whispers,
“Look, it’s Bambi’s Daddy.”
But he won’t miss if he’s protecting his family.
He’ll wear a stiff black suit and uncomfortable silk tie
to the fancy restaurant his mother-in-law wanted to see.
He might even eat the tiny portions of fish bait
he paid a week’s wages for with a smile,
because his wife’s happy.
But no way can they serve anything
that holds a candle to his barbeque.
They told him he was going to die and he said,
They told him he wasn’t going to walk and he said,
We danced barefoot in the kitchen last night and he said,
“I love you.”
That’s my red neck hero.