I learned to chop from the hand.
           The onion a palm-cupped moon
sliced by a blade almost
           grazing thenar eminence.

Was trained well before YouTube and
           Top Chef told me I had it all wrong,
before my cousin went to culinary school
           and brought back the gospel of
tucking fingers on cutting boards.
           It was my hand in the pan,
inevitable burns, cuts that meant
           I had skin in this game
the least I can offer for a meal with no hunt.
           My hands not toiling with much soil—
what could I sacrifice for a harvested vegetable,
           treetop-plucked fruit, cream from
an animal whose name I do not know,
           nor felt the fear of her kick in my chest?
I learned from those who as children knew
           the heartbreak of naming whom would be slaughtered.

My part now:
           a swipe of my credit card. Electronic notes
in a world full of blood and tendon,
           exhausted muscles, pesticide leukemia,
weary backs that bend nonetheless
           under a hot sun.

These hands may shake in fear
           of what has made its intentions known,
but they will feed me and mine
           in the way of my people
so used to living in the cut
           where danger and love dwell:

a pot
a table
a stove
a knife.

^{—after Freda Epum}

the day could do without
me. The ice outside glitters around
my car’s tires like a pageant
dress. Only digital utterances between
myself and the world for at least
a week. The last time he visited, my friend
noted the lack of natural light
in my downstairs apartment, 
the posthumous-grey bleeding into
the mood. Aught of light
in the bedroom due to the blackout
curtains. But sometimes,
the day heckles, with its high-
bitch sun and melting snow. Some
days, I lay in the morgue
of darkness, hyper-alone,
and the sunlight, so audacious, paints
the color back onto my cheeks. 

I bring my father his dream—
his daughter at last returned
presenting him the spoils
of absence—cash, gadgets,
a bottle of something
naughty but not-too-strong.

I bring him his legs
—sturdy, with brand new knees—
exchange them for the wheeled
chair I had sent years ago
when they finally failed
falling into a bowed “O”
under his weight.

I bring him back
the years of distance,
when our shared silence
made the ocean between us
impassable, our voices
lost to its crashing waves.
The days pour out our songs.

I bring him back our bear hugs,
playful tugs on his afro,
back scratches and laughter
that slaps both our knees. A mouth
hungry for whatever emerges
from his ever-bubbling pot.

I bring him his reflection
grinning though my face,
our matching squints and sighs.
I bring him back his name
unburied from my tongue—
Daddy, I say, I’m home.