Father before Kipling

my father recites kipling to me

scrunching his face from brow to nose

his shotgun hands spin off a round of if’s

aimed at my heart or my head

while his hips swivel behind like a shadow,

the unforgiving minute he says.

the unforgiving minute I say

repeating back the contents of single-paged letters

which appeared in my mailbox at boarding school

swiveling their hips as I opened the envelope

below Rudyard’s attribution the humble, unknown genius

always signs the same: I said it first. Love, Dad.