Burn

The first time I met my father

Maclean Avenue, 1 A.M

knees almost touching

under the diner booth

he told me

his mouth full of

frosted flakes

the corner of his lip

dripping

milk

work hard and

be nice to people

I was seven

remembered the burn

from the cigarette

how she took my finger

and pressed it down

hard

against the pulse

in the scar tissue

a kiss on my head

held there

instead of answers.

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