The same operation on my heart
as Father had, a defective valve,
my heart straining when it pumps.
 
While I’m growing up, Mother yells at him,
demands that he be a better father,
more like the dads who aren’t refugees.
 
He and I sit in the kitchen, trying to learn
all the Boy Scout knots, Father
sweating as we go through the handbook.
 
We start with the square knot but he
can’t do it, his thick fingers a hindrance,
better suited for slicing sides of beef.
 
When I first work at his meat market,
he takes me into the big freezer
and explains the different cuts—
 
chuck, ribs, flank, brisket—
the large sides swinging into me,
my shirt covered in blood and gristle.
 
He shows me the organs he has for sale—
the hearts and tongues set in aspic—
the subtle transparency of veins.