What we hold on to

On a shelf above my bed

sits a frame with a picture

of myself and my father.

My face is smiling wide,

a pair of giant sunglasses

on my face, a silver peace

sign around my neck. My dad

isn't quite looking at the camera

his eyes darting to the side as

he thinks the photo is over and

his flowered shirt wrinkles as he

laughs, and I keep looking up

at him, asking if I look pretty

in that dress and if he likes

the dance.