It wasn't like that. Don't imagine
my father in a feed cap, chewing
a stem of alfalfa, spitting occasionally.

No bib-overalls over bare shoulders,
no handkerchief around his neck.
Don't imagine he didn't shave every morning.

The buildings on his farm weren't
weathered gray; the lawns were always mowed.
Don't imagine a car in the weeds.

I tell you this because you have certain
ideas about me, about farmers
and their daughters.

You imagine him bumbling along, some
hayseed, when really, he wore his dark
suit as gracefully as Cary Grant.

The one thing you're right about
is that he worked too hard. You can't 
imagine how early and how late.