My father got into fights
when he was twenty;
torn shirts and muscles,
sunglasses to conceal
the broken vessels
lining his pale eyes.

Too many times
he spat out jagged teeth,
tasted blood and beer
while his knuckles stung
from the injury of another.

Years later, he threatened me
with the same. Don't you dare
call me Dad. You're lucky
I haven't broken your leg.

Maybe he loved us as savagely
as he threw punches,
or the way he watched television
in his unemployed days:

detached, puerilely amused,
fast asleep over the chatter
of a Chinese family serial.