Dad blows air over his mug, lets my question
cool. Just asking throws me back there –

the wide green lawn, lockless doors, ghost girls
with fuzz all over like they’ve just been born.

No mirrors, but the big haired lady at reception
looked me up and down. I wanted to shout

I’m nothing like them but instead looked at the floor,
took the tour. I bring it up because I want to tell him

it was good fathering, that mean day he made me
weigh myself against the other waste-aways.

I kept the brochure, I want to tell him,
topping up his coffee, waiting for the words.

Sometimes, I want to go back there,
hip bones jutting, clavicle like a scythe.

I want to lie down on a strip of that perfectly
mown grass and decompose. But I don’t,

I’m trying to tell him, whisking eggs and slabbing butter
in the skillet he seasoned for me, taste of a thousand

rashers of bacon blackened. He says my fry-up
is almost as good as Aunt Movalene’s. Winks.

Maybe this is his answer. Maybe butter so thick on the toast
my teeth leave a rainbow is all I was trying to say.