“The Helper,” a poem



The day I helped Daddy shovel dirt

is the first I remember.


I was a big girl, two, big enough to help

in my white shirt with scalloped edges, yellow pants.

Daddy didn’t wear a shirt, just brown work shorts.

It was hot and he was red

like the wheelbarrow we loaded with dirt.

Our yard was mostly rock but we filled that wheelbarrow

full. A yardwork miracle.


My wheelbarrow. The one Daddy would push me in.

We zoomed through the grass and he pretended

to tip me over and I squealed

like a new pig.
But that day I was not in my wheelbarrow. Dirt was.

He used the big shovel. I used my five fat fingers

and helped, one handful at a time.


Mom used our carefully gathered dirt

to plant impatiens.

They never did last, but every year they bloomed.


  1. Megan, this is beautiful. Especially that last line.

  2. Your poem is a perfect reflection of the quote Maureen shares this morning over at http://writingwithoutpaper.blogspot.com

  3. dukeslee says

    Lyla stole what I was going to say. You’re brilliant, Megan.

  4. S. Etole says

    I see that little girl and her daddy.