Daddy’s Fixing a Pocketknife
He stands in the kitchen and twists
the screw that holds the blade in place.
He hunches over, the glasses
that magnify firmly on nose,
and drives it as delicately
as a dancer. His hand pliés
and pirouettes near the blade
never losing balance. He stops,
looks at me, and sighs, wanting to teach
me a dance I never want to learn.