He Could Never Get It All Out

The pump clicked off and I just stood there.

The smell sat in the morning air, insistent—

my father, summers, the car, the repair

that never held. He was never quite distant

enough from it. He'd come to dinner

with his hands scrubbed and still showing

the dark lines in each crease. No winner

in that fight. He'd say I got it mostly, not knowing

I'd remember mostly for the rest of my life

the way you remember a word that doesn't quite

mean what the person needed. Not strife,

not failure—just the gap between what's right

and what your hands can do.

The person at the next pump looked at me.

I put the nozzle back. He's fine now. Who

keeps their father in a smell? I do, apparently.