I bit into a biscuit one morning, scrambled eggs
with chunks of bacon stacked like scattered Legos
smushed firm by the heel of a hand.
My son had made it,
along with a mess I know
I'll have to clean up,
utensils and pans piled in the sink
like a fallen Jenga tower.
A bite was enough to send me tumbling
back to a long gone kitchen
proudly serving Father's Day breakfast
on a tilted plate that he grasped and righted
before the meal leaped into his lap.
My old man closed his eyes as he bit into the eggs
and a calm and ecstasy passed
over those lowered lids;
I later saw those eyes
shuttered at the home,
as weary gasps drifted into permanence.
I took a second bite
hoping for another glimpse.
But that vision drifted, the aroma of twenty-years-ago cigars
lingering in the garage as his outstretched arm
juts from under the chassis,
waiting for me to give him
a socket wrench or a book of matches.
Instead, I savored the real butter, melted cheese, and extra salt
that recklessly seasoned my youth;
no third bite—the rest went to the dog.
So I sprayed a non-stick Teflon pan with a wisp of canola oil,
whisked skim milk into two cracked eggs—no bacon—a pinch of salt,
fried and slid it between two slivers of toast, whole wheat.
As I chewed the bland construction,
I lowered my eyes to conjure the far-off morning
when my son
would tell me
about his first
Father's Day breakfast.