The Ground

I think my dad thinks he apologized to me 
Today in my backyard. We were on our 
Knees. We were not praying, though 
I understand us as men dedicated 
To the ground in a religious way. 
Behind my home on our four knees 
Not praying but digging, we searched 
For something I can’t remember 
Among rows of collards and tomatoes 
I wanted him to see because a boy will 
Show off for his dad even after 
He is a man. The sun burned on, and 
I got a tad nervous about digging once 
I caught the tail end of a snake or thought 
I did as I pulled up clumps of black earth 
With my bare hands, still less wrinkled 
Than his. I can’t remember why 
I would have my daddy bent in the dirt 
Digging like a mammal with me because 
He stopped to wipe his forehead 
With the back of his sweaty forearm 
And said, “I suppose you think you could 
Have done everything without me 
Being hard to you” and went silent as if 
To acknowledge I had any perspective 
At all on my early life as it relates to his 
Cracked, clayed hands that hit whomever 
Had a heartbeat in his house, the first one 
I ever called home. I don’t remember 
A thing after that silence and very little 
From before–Have I eaten today? 
Yesterday? Did I ever eat or am I 
A hunger growing food that can’t satisfy 
Me? I am bereft but must have 
Guided him up when he finally stood 
Again, and I do know neither of us cried. 
God is in the ground, which is where
The living go when they die. That old 
Man can’t make me cry no more no more.