Inheritance

I’m under the kitchen sink again,

the trap leaking into a plastic bucket.

The iron wrench is cold,

a heavy, rusted tooth from his toolbox

that I never bothered to clean.

He used to sit on the floor like this,

just pointing a finger at the pipe

whenever the drip slowed down.

He didn't explain the threads

or why the washer was shot.

He just watched the water,

his jaw set like a lock.

Now the handle is biting back,

leaving a red, deep dent in my palm

where his hand used to be.