Wishing My Dead Dad Could Help Me Buy a Car

And not a real clunker this time. Dad,
wearing his American flag do-rag
over his bald head to soak up sweat
and shine. He knew cars. Weekend hours
in the garage, he’d lie flat-backed
under the belly of his truck.
I’d hand him the leathery blue grease
towels, the wrench—no, the other one—
and never touch the radio (Eagles
and best-of rock n’ roll). I never learned;
I’m a girl. Salesmen trailing me,
I popped hoods to peer at the mangle
of metal guts in rows of sedans, gleaming
with commuter practicality. I could never
replicate Dad’s charm—conspiratorial
whisper, arms folded to show muscle
in the wavering heat of a Memphis
used car lot. Two-toned balloons, tethered
in bunches, nod like the daughters
I am not. Look, I just need a car
for around town. Daddy, come back
and sweet-talk them down.