|Watercolor by Pat Morgan|
The first time my Dad took me fishing
We brought a bag of worms.
He selected a big, fat one for his hook,
A small one for mine. I didn’t mind.
He saw I was reluctant to pierce
My worm with the hook. Without a word
He took them from me. I didn’t mind.
I was anxious and pulled the line before he was done.
The hook caught his finger,
Blood beaded up. He didn’t yell at me.
After an hour he suggested we leave. I didn’t mind.
He hadn’t caught any fish.
I only caught his finger.
He didn’t mind.
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