To the unshaven dad, barefoot at
the stove, frying an egg over-easy
for your small daughter, to whom,
when asked why were you whistling,
confessed, Because I am happy.
 
And it wasn't like you had to explain
how well you'd slept, or that you loved
her mama, or the stock market flourished
the day before, when what you did say
 
was everything — because I know
this daughter, and any morning she wakes up  
in your house, or her house, or any house,
to a breakfast with a pan of eggs,
 
she holds an unconscious, buttery blend
of memory — her part in the golden yolk
of your happiness.


This poem first appeared in Fictional Café.
Used here with permission.