fit as a fiddle

they want blood out
of my father
before his cataract surgery.
a vial or two will do,
the blood pressure is high,
the heart beats too fast.
he resists.
what if they find out there's
something wrong with me,
he says.
you're eighty-seven, I tell
him, what could possibly
be wrong with you
after decades of drinking
smoking and eating
charred red meat?
not to mention lying in the sun
every minute that the sun
comes out.
you're fit as a fiddle, I tell
him putting my hand
on his shoulder.
fit as a fiddle, he says back,
mocking me.
we'll see, we'll see, wont we.