You wouldn’t use a steak knife
to butter toast, my father once told me
when I wasn’t using a steak knife
to butter toast. Makes sense, Dad,
I said, putting down the hammer
I was slamming into a pushpin.
Something like this, he said,
doesn’t need the weight of a hammer,
just press using your own thumb.
Oh, I said, you mean the one I sucked
until 7th grade when the principal
called home “advising” you
your 13-year-old daughter was sucking her thumb
in algebra and we had the family talk,
you and Mom sent me to someone,
a shrink, I think, my thumb sporting tiny
bite marks on both sides, nail bed mush
from my tongue’s constant thrust.
My thumb was, for sure, the right tool
for that job, and kept other tools like reds,
Marlboros out of my mouth. Even today,
don’t force it, I hear my father say,
like when I can’t close the dishwasher
something’s in the way and I push
the door, plates fall over on their sides,
glasses crack, don’t force it, I hear his voice
as I keep pushing to make it work,
forcing another screw into that wrong-
sized deadbolt, always creating a hole
too large to fill.