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.