A Draft

Since I've been reading more poetry for April National Poetry Month and the book I'm in the middle of seems to have inspired me, here's a stab at something that might be poetic.

I was late to fatherhood.

A second marriage for both of us.

A second chance,

A second life

To live differently.

I’ve lived two lives.

Two marriages, anyway.

And the first one wasn’t short.

I’m sure I’ve learned much

About how to be,

Who to be,

In a relationship.

I’m still learning how to be a father,

Though I’ve spent my life in education:
My parents were both teachers;

After growing up a student,

I spent nine years in college,

Plus four more part-time once working,

Left with two postgraduate degrees;

Professionally,

I’ve been an educator since.

(Not to mention the side gigs

While still a student.)

An educator

In a high school,

In early childhood education,

And in-between.

I’ve done rural, urban, and suburban.

All as a librarian—

So not just an educator

Who teaches others what to learn,

But one focused on teaching them

How to learn.

My first wife was an immigrant,

So I’ve been to gatherings where I

Didn’t speak the language

And stood out as the other

(Though not truly a minority,

Given my whiteness, maleness).

I’ve tried my best,

In this way and many others,

To learn what it is like

To be not me.

I read constantly,

Explore the human condition

Through stories and studies:

Philosophy, psychology, sociology,

Anthropology,

Theology.

I’ve been trained as a leader

In multiple settings.

I have strong opinions

That I voice often.

I’ve been called pedantic.

I embrace the label “nerd.”

I love knowing things,

And it shows,

Even though, most of the time,

I try not to let it.

I own my own

House, car, hoard,

Mistakes (I hope).

And have for years.

I can do my own taxes.

I’m told I am a great parent.

By every measure,

I am a

Capable,

Responsible,

Successful,

Highly-educated,

Highly-knowledgeable*

Adult.

And still,

Almost all of the time,

I feel like

A little boy

Who doesn’t know

Anything

About anything

That really matters.

The rest

Is just bluster

To hide that

Ever-present

Anxious

Insecurity

In the hopes of

Convincing myself

I’m not just a fraud.

*(I even know this poem

Is largely a cliché.)