one summer evening
i sat in the grass of my backyard
and watched my father pull up dandelions,
washing the lawn clean from disease.
he grabbed them from the roots,
destroying their origin, snapping them in two.
i didn’t understand why they had to go.
they were just flowers—
glowing
and
blooming
and
performing
and
growing.
i wanted to braid them in my hair,
i wanted to wrap them around my wrists.
why did the beauty have to be destroyed?
my father looked up at me,
sweat shining above his eyes
and grass staining the denim on his knees.
honey, they’re just weeds.