The Button

my father told me
again and again
starting when
I was quite young:

“son, the only time
you should start a fight
is if they call you a redskin
or they call you a half-breed.
then, 
swing hard
and strike hard
and keep swinging
and striking
until they cannot
keep speaking.”

when a button 
that large
is built into 
a boy
that young,

you should not be surprised
that as a fully grown man
that boy might try to watch
a football game
with clenched fists trembling
and nausea rising
and memories flooding
until he turns the TV off
and does something, 
anything else.

you should not be surprised
that as a fully grown man
he snarls like a schoolyard 
at an office party remark meant
to describe
without any understanding
of how it once was used
to proscribe.

you shouldn’t 
be surprised
that he doesn’t want to talk
about any of this with you
until you take your clumsy finger
and your ignorant tongue
off the goddamn button.