My father stands over the pots
in my house, baking sweet potatoes,
giving me back the taste
of a world where mothers still exist.
His hands slice thin answers
to my questions, laying
them in orderly rows: consequences,
actions, reasons, reactions.
We learn the hard way: This is a world
of the eaters and the eaten: sadness consumes
the heart, and we consume the sadness.
In large spoonfuls, quickly, with coarse salt
and a delicate heart. We no longer linger
around the table, least it swallow us whole.
Blessed be the one who brings forth bread,
who sustains his world
with beauty, grace and sorrow.
Blessed be my father’s creator.