Single Dad
Dedicated to the everyday heroes I know
At the breakfast table my head lays heavy Presently, it’s the only object there oblongated sideways with its hollow-boned cheek jellied empty into cirrus clouds of cold wood inches away from a splintered heart-etched clump of names My eyes sway open and shut sauntering in light beams between blinds until they return to rest in wafts of a mother’s ghost A fly settles at the tip of my ogling nose as thump-thumping goes the army of skillets and bowls A pan marching to the hissing edge of a flame breathes a string of heaving condensations into a ladled lump of rice flour It forms a glugging continent of hope — at least for Dad with his calibrated, tool-shed tenderness teasing the liminality of a shape that now closely resembles his whaled heart and clat-clatter goes the blue china plate ready to hold his burden of self in whatever form it could sit in and scritch-scratchy goes the spatula at war boned into his measures of love A debris of dust and ash fills the air between him and me in choked curses and apologies Windows open. Birds flutter past. Long silence. And then, a welcome pop of toast.
Notes: This is somewhat a personal piece, dedicated to my loving dad who’s raised us on his own for a good two and half decades. (He still likes to believe he’s raising us :D.) And even though he’s never flipped me a pancake, there’s a world of things that I have to be grateful for.
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