dad & i as stamps 

i'd like to just be a stamp 
pressed neatly in a row of dad's collection.
safe behind a plastic covered page. 
my world measured square. right angle 
by right angle. he keeps the book
shelved alongside photo-albums.
spin crinkles with each page turns. 
the stamps are organized by subject. 
flowers. dogs. buildings. 
vehicles. people.
i asked dad if you had to be dead 
to be on a stamp 
& he said he was pretty sure
you did. all the founding fathers
& their scowls pressed into the page.
the album open in his lap. open
on the floor of the sun room.
in bed with me. i had a few weeks
of loving the stamp collection--
carrying it with me all around the house.
i was looking in each image 
to imagine what existed 
out of frame.
i should have thought 
more about dad-- not everyone's father
presses images into neat rows & 
memorizes where each came from.
if i was one of those stamps
maybe he would hold me even now--
maybe he would trance his finger
around the parameter of my box
& wonder about what kind of
life i lived. 
most of the stamps 
had faded. yellowing & brittle.
maybe he wanted 
a square for himself--
to crawl into miniature. 
a self portrait.
if i could i would place his beside mine
so that in 2-d we might
know each other even if only
by proximity. i would give him
a forest background 
& a full tooth smile. 
i can't choose what i would want
behind me forever. a backdrop. 
maybe just one color. blue 
to fall in. safe, even in my falling
always returning 
to place my body
in that frame.