To You: My Father
The tray hits the edge of the table, glasses clink
Then clatter.
Now, your sweaty palm opens like a tropical
Flower in the midst
Of disaster, disorder, there (here?) is your pink palm.
We are in chaos as the waiter drops the tray.
Me, the family. My grandfather's survivors. You.
We lean closer as vines grow
Supported by the strongest stalk.
We are damp and wet like the rainforest. There
When the tallest tree dies, it rots upright.
Plants that grew around it, still clamber up for light.
In the restaurant, the youngest grandson clings to an uncle.
We look away. We look to you. Your big hands hold
The menu for both of us. Our waiter lingered, held back the mess.
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