This Is the Dream

In the sun, brown men glow
as I hear the clop of their hammers;
they nail new siding to a building, staple
tar paper to a roof, whack weeds off the edge

of a yard. Always these men of soil
and gasoline bring me to my father,
a different brown but brown. I picture
him standing with his friend

like these men. By the railroad tracks.
The construction store. A food truck.
They wait to be picked up, to labor the day
forever a bit unsure if the cash will come

from the hands that work them.
Years later, as a gardener, opening
his own business, Dad and I would walk
rich neighborhoods with their tall bushes,

leafy maples, and so much lawn. Flyer:
roll the blue sheet into handrails or
slip them under welcome
mats. I imagine Dad would drive

by Home Depot, point out a few men
he didn’t know; then all of them with English
unsteady on their tongues would arrive
somewhere they didn’t know equally,

and the men would bow over rakes, uncertain
about the day’s earning. Here, I sweat
in the summer heat. Wonder if this is
the American Dream—

for my Vietnamese father to fight alongside some,
in a war they abandon, and when they decide
to allow entrance, he earns the right
to cut their lawns, build their homes.