My father can’t taste red meat anymore,
can’t see two markers to the left of his nose.

A bottle of emotions only needs a ring neck, just one
to detriment equilibrium, a tree sliced in half.
A father, like his father before, two halves of a whole,
carrying my culture on their backs, carrying my pain.

Don’t worry my son, he says again and again.
I’d rather be put in a home to relieve you of my aging task.

But when I question him if he’s had enough,
he says yes, he desires an undisturbed next of kin.
He wants his Dodgers to win again, just once more
so that I can witness what he had seen as a child.

He laughs as I grin, I took you in as a father should,
gazing at me as if I would ever consider his proposal.

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