Julian

The day your father was born, one thousand miles away,
his grandfather walked out into the woods behind his house
and cut a small dogwood branch with the perfect y-shaped fork

for a slingshot. He would use rubber laboratory tubing
for bands, an old leather scrap for the pocket.
Like with anything and everything he’s ever made

by hand, your great-grandfather took his time
on each detail—where leather fastened to the bands,
and each band to the wood. I can see him now,

when the notion first came to him, setting off
with his work gloves and a pruning shears, already
one particular branch in mind for the project.

It was Christmas when that slingshot arrived in a box
of other presents sent for the newborn’s first holiday. It wasn’t
wrapped like the other things. There was just a yellow post-it note
with your father’s name written in your great grandfather’s hand.