It’s hard to impress me with chicken.
My father looks down and nods.
I know.
He says it quietly,
Simply a recognition
Of the fact
That I’ve grown out of this world,
Out of this cramped kitchen
With the cherry cabinets
And linoleum floors.
Out of his hands
That used to swallow mine
In their tight,
Comforting grasp.
Back when I needed nothing more
Than his company.
The same hands
That painted my bedroom
A pepto-bismol shade of pink.
The same hands
That held the bike steady
As I learned to pedal on my own.
The same hands
That follow family recipes,
Passed down for generations.
The same hands
That season with memories.

So I pick up my fork
And take a piece of the chicken.
I eat it
And taste the diligent care.
I mean it when I say
I love it.
And my father looks up
Smiling.