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My Father and Food
- Red Hen Press
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29 K ate G ale My Father and Food My Father and I do not need each other. I have a husband, he has a wife. I carry a baby who will never say grandpa. I met him twice, the first it was snowing. I was anxious and dripped ketchup from my French fries. He studied me like leftovers. Two years later when I called he said he had no time to read my letters, said I’d seemed fat when he met me. I said, “Ah.” The second time was hot, Philadelphia steamed. I was California blond, tanned, had a plane to catch. Over chicken salad, I crumbled out my life for him; he gave me only select slices of his. ...