Because no tools can be carried on the plane,
I buy them at the Home Depot near his apartment

and sneak into my father’s building through
the Service Only entrance. Dad’s Ford has more dents.

Half hanging fender. He got lucky with the parking spot –
a few steps from the elevator. I puncture the tires

with the spike. Then pick the trunk’s lock and stab
the spare. I hear him tell me, when he’s driving,

he feels like 50. You drive like you’re 95, I say in a laugh
because he’s 96 and I’m afraid to be direct. He takes it

as a compliment. I wedge the hammer claw into the seam –
unintentionally scraping some paint – jimmying-up the hood.

I cut all wires because I know how iron-willed he is, and pour
the bag of sugar into the gas tank, crack the windshield

and headlights, pound the battery until the thick clips snap.
I know he’s fought all his life for everything so the leftover

Coke from the airport goes into the brake fluid.
Because he taught me integrity, I write a note in big enough

block letters so he can read it even with his double vision.
Of course, I sign it. But don’t ask. I will not tell you

what it says. He taught me loyalty, too.

Appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Spring 2024