Late Breakfast

My seven year old daughter
wants to make me
brunch for Mother’s Day.

I would feel hollow
without honoring the meal.
I let her.

She cooks me toast, one slice,
and joins me at the table. Innocently,
I tell her she still has

her mother’s eyes. I smile—
why?
The toast leaps out and impacts the floor,

startling her. I pretend
to jump in my seat, which
comforts her;

but in truth, she’s not convinced.
I want the chance to jump
again, but can’t,

because I don’t usually run the errands,
and now we’re out of bread.

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