Dad in the Kitchen

BJ Fogg

I just might forget that week I’ve pasted in albums:

Luke two, a new puppy, Monterey sun.

But I’ll remember Dad

handwashing through the holidays.


Pouring Palmolive and massaging suds to life,

Dad moved easy like a tall tree-swing,

his white pinpoint oxford

safely under an apron.


And then I’ll remember how he stood

ten years ago in bare feet

and a Pendleton robe to make me breakfast

each weekday at five fifty-five a.m. How he opened

my eggs in pairs and nested empty


orange halves, and how I swallowed those mornings

without words.