On Sundays I try to wake
early, wash the potatoes before
my father gets up.
I place everything out:
the pan, pepper, grease.
Beg him to do the grating first.
When I oversleep, miss
my chance, he mixes
screwdrivers before he shreds
those potatoes fast.
Still in bed, I hear the ch-ch-ch,
pulp against metal,
and I know I'm late,
bolt downstairs to hear him
slur out a joke about slicing
his fingertips off. With another
slosh of vodka, his hands
fly over the hash, a blur,
then the flinch.
He winces, he does,
and I hate the hiss of bacon
in cast iron, want
the toast to burn.
I'm not hungry. I can't bear
to eat the salt of him.