Bri Griffith

My Dad: Mindfreak

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No—
it’s my dad, levitating

me to school so I don’t miss picture day.

Who needs a bus

when you’ve got magic

& a good haircut?

My dad, an angel

with black winged liner

crisp as the autumn air

is spinning like a record.

I’m holding onto the spikes

on his leather jacket,

sharp like shark teeth. I let

go, but he grabs my arm.

Next time I’ll wear a sweatshirt.

School looks like a strawberry from up here

when suddenly we land

in an empty parking spot.

My dad yanks my backpack

outta his pocket. I walk toward

the front door when Patrick sees me & says

               I thought your dad was dead.

               Wasn’t he run over by a steamroller?

That was 2009 idiot—he’s recovered.

               Sounds fake.

My dad is not fake. He’s the applause

of a live studio audience, a trick mirror, a mouse trap

in a dark room, but not fake. He’s not fake, not fake, he’s not—

there’s bird shit on Patrick’s head. I look up to see

a crow wearing a red bandana, disappearing / into the trees.
 

Bri Griffith earned her MFA in poetry from Florida International University in 2021. Her work has appeared in “Columbia Poetry Review,” “Small Orange,” “Pittsburgh Poetry Journal,” “Court Green,” and elsewhere. She was a Best New Poets nominee in 2021. Griffith is a writing instructor at University of Pittsburgh, Community College of Allegheny County, and Florida International University; she currently lives in Pittsburgh.