Tumbling out of a brown lunch bag are all of the report cards

from my father’s high school and college career.

The paper crumbles with age.

E = Excellent effort; G = Good; S = Satisfactory; U = Unsatisfactory

They make me think of the three things he told me

when he dropped me off on my first day at the private high school:

1. No dating football players
2. No dating Italians
3. When it comes to grades, Gallicchio’s don’t get B’s

I couldn’t help the first two from happening

(freshman year, no less. Sorry about that.)

But dammit, I studied hard for every “A” I earned.

After four years there and four years in college,

He finally told me the secret:

“It’s true. Gallicchio’s don’t get B’s.

I usually got C’s.”

He savored his punchline.

And it even makes me smile,

now that I see all the “Unsatisfactory Effort”s, especially next to Religion class.

He’s gone to church every Sunday since he made a pact with God

about his pancreas.

(Dad’s pancreas, not God’s pancreas.)

And I wonder if he’s putting in Excellent Effort

(never present in any of his subjects, according to the records)

because he feels indebted.

The grief he gives me, his little atheist,

bemoaning twelve years of Catholic school tuition.

“Money well spent,” I tell him.

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have found all the flaws.”

And I wonder what waits for him every Sunday morning—

The church is a locked box I’m not compelled to find the key to,

A brown bag whose paper intestines fall apart in my hands,

Becoming dust.