What kind of fool am I? by Naomi Shihab Nye
He sang with abandon,
combing his black, black hair.
Each morning in the shower,
first in Arabic, rivery ripples
of song carrying him back
to his first beloved land,
then in English, where his repertoire
was short. No kind at all! we’d all shout,
throwing ourselves into the brisk arc
of his cologne for a morning kiss.
But he gave us freedom to be fools
if we needed to, which we certainly
would later, which we all do now and then,
perhaps a father’s greatest gift –