My dad & sardines

my dad's going to give me a self back. i've made an altar called The Altar for Healing the Father & Child, & asked him what i could do for him so he would do nice for me. he said i should stop saying bad things about him &, since i've said just about everything bad i can think of &, since . . . well, no, i change my mind, i can't promise him that. but even healing is negotiable, so, if he's in heaven (or trying to get in), it wouldn't hurt to be in touch. the first thing i want is to be able to enjoy the little things again—for example, to stop peeling down the list of things i have to do & enjoy this poem, enjoy how, last night, scouring the cupboards, i found a can of sardines that must be five years old &, since i was home after a long trip &, since it was 1 a.m. & i hadn't eaten dinner &, since there was no other protein in the house, i cranked it open & remembered that my dad loved sardines—right before bed—with onions & mustard. i can't get into my dad's old heart, but i remember that look on his face when he would load mustard on a saltine cracker, lay a little fish on top, & tip it with a juicy slice of onion. then he'd look up from his soiled fingers with one eyebrow raised, a rakish grin that said—all for me!—as if he was getting away with murder.