Father's Formal Pants

It kept coming back, that instance
his palm slapping the back of my head
while I negotiated with the creases
of his brown polyester pants.
He had me press out the weeks it stayed
crumpled like a ball of paper
in the corner of the cabinet, unwashed
and forgotten like a childhood memory.
My worth was measured by how smooth
the pants felt out from the heat
and how evanescent the folds were
from the touch of hot iron.
What he taught was temperatures
needed to be precise, exact
to quiet his mumbles, grumbles.
What I learned was my skin can burn at a touch,
the heart can hold some anger,
tears are not for the weak,
rooms should hush in his presence,
and his pants were never mine to wear.