Hippies signed me, doves deliver me, wars end when I arrive.

I am blue and black, but not bruised. I have a rasp, but can’t speak. I am a straw, but you can’t use me to suck.

I sound like arrow, but that is not what I am. I carry death, kings, cups, and more, to lay out futures foretold. I am a full deck, but not meant for play; if read poorly, you may start to pray.

I welcome guests but never invite them. Cars rest on me, yet I’m not a garage. I lead you home but I’m not a road, and I belong to you, not the town. What am I?

In most cases, it's not welcome. Yet in golf, it's your goal. What is it?