I love blueberry pancakes.
the ones my dad makes for me
when I get to spend the night.
They are emotions spread into 6″ rounds
with bubbly edges stained purple.
It’s how he tells me
“You mean so much to me.”
or
“I love you berry much.”
That’s not him, that’s me.
It’s the connection with a father
MY DAD that worked hard
so she wouldn’t have to.
It’s the flavor of buttered syrup
a modicum of sweet drizzled
over bruised blueberries
bubbling more
than some battered fruit
The stacks of his generous heart
tower over the platter
that he places on the table
solid, like him, dependable,
sturdy as stock he stands
I accept his gift as he tells a joke
with the punchline
strategically placed
in middle the middle
