Daddy grew up on the end of a dirt road.
That house was ruled by the bottle
that flew his Daddy’s fists
and ran off my Daddy’s feet
deep into those North Carolina woods.
My Daddy knew his Daddy wouldn’t change.
After years, there did amount a change,
but not in my Granddaddy down that road,
but in my Daddy, who escaped those woods
who for me swore off the bottle
so that I would never use my feet
to escape the torment of his fists.
Instead, a steering wheel grew from his fists
to work hard and keep busy, to fulfill his change
in a narrower path for his worn fists.
Steady he would be on the road.
All his comfort taken away from the bottle
A life and a family out of the woods
But my Daddy knows in those woods
is where he was made, his fists
that have so adamantly pushed away the bottle,
the will to strive for a generation of change,
a better way, as he walked down the road
carried by the most reliable thing he’s known, his feet
My Daddy trusted those “tough as leather” feet
to nestle in away from those woods,
a place closer to town, a more solid road
for the little face with the tiny fists
the pudgy baby with diapers to change
a hungry baby boy feeding on his own bottle
That boy, Daddy wanted to steer clear of the bottle.
He needed me to keep myself up on my feet,
but through him to learn the difficulty of change.
Oh, many times we wandered into those woods,
my hands wrapped inside his strong fists,
so I could learn to never go alone on Granddaddy’s road
Because on that road, I’d lose it all to the bottle
All the money in my fists, all the comforts under my feet
If I ever lost sight of the lesson of the woods, the battle of change