"Stay Away from Guys Who Drink Michelob Ultra"
What I love about my father’s advice is
how it’s bottled in a facility that processes
all the nutcases and absolute knuckleheads
he has ever met; bottled beside the carousel
that loops a daddy-daughter dance,
the 1990s passing unpackaged down the line;
how my father’s advice contains no warning label
considering the questionable history of woman
showing up in her sparkly red number
to dye the lonely night. But what I really love
is the bit where my father pairs men with beer
and me with the free market angels, soberly
refusing the beer that is not beer but beer-flavored,
rejecting the boys who are not men but men-flavored,
and avoiding the hypothetical substance of love
that is not love but love-flavored. How merciful,
my father, placing me there smocked in white,
far from the boy nursing a domestic in the corner.
How like my father he is when he frames me
the object of stored up hopes, then uncaps
and extends what he has to offer.