How My Father Loves
paprika,
tamarind sauce,
white pepper,
leeks
at six in the morning,
the smell of the sea
sizzling on charcoal
in the backyard.
this is not for the sister
on the hospital bed –
the spices would hurt
her gut, so for now
eggs are best. there is a pot
on the stove, water bubbling
over, five small white
blobs dancing
in the broth.
there is also
fresh fruit and cream,
set aside for the sister
who likes fruit
with light meals;
he made a lot of it,
placed it in a bowl
with a tight lid,
so the fruit wouldn’t freeze
if left too long
in the fridge. there is also
a plate of sauteed watercress
for the daughter who can
no longer take meat,
and a large Vigan sausage
for the daughter who cannot
start the day without
a hefty serving of
dead animal.
this is what he knows
better than anyone: later
they will share the white
pepper and paprika fish, and
the rice he is frying
with leftovers and garlic
on a large skillet;
they will eat with their hands
and their stories, and they
will all be full.
there is more than
enough – this he knows.
of this he will always make
sure.
