Baba could never sit still
And now he’s on all these pills.
In the garden on father’s day
Now we watch his salt, to keep his heart at bay.
It’s strange to wake up and put your finger under your father’s nose in the middle of the
night.
to baby your own father though it’s never without a fight.
I make him a heart-healthy breakfast
Cluelessly I must confess.
I’ve never been the parent, I’ve always been the child.
But as your parents grow older, you trade shoes and learn to
walk a mile
Baba used to cut me fresh fruit
Now I lightly salt his soup.
Baba raised me into who I am
Now I look out for him by making his food bland.
And on the day I decided to take care of myself for the
first time in a while.
I see something that makes it all feel less futile.
A painting of a tired, worn out man pushing a
pomegranate larger than life.
But he shouldn’t have to yield the knife—
not alone.
Though he is fully grown.
Baba, like the man…
peels fresh almonds and fruits for me
Diligently does so, seed by seed
No need for “I love you,” the effort and action is as clear as can be.
So now I can learn to do the same for—
He who never loses hope, a faith unwavering though
his God was really cuttin’ it close
He who was almost among the ghosts
He who carries such a heavy load—
But I can help, though I am not fully grown
So I sit there and diligently peel the anar, seed by seed
Some pieces of poisonous pith still lingering
I serve some up for Baba and then for me
The effort and action as clear as can be.
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