We didn’t eat


bread, I didn’t even know

this existed. Instead

we ate thick slabs

of the bread my mother

baked each week,

soft and yeasty.
When we burnt a piece

we always gave it
to my father

assuming he liked it

because each time he dutifully

scraped off the worst

of the charred black, then smeared

my mother’s homemade

jelly onto it and choked

it down. I never thought

he ate it out of near-poverty,

I thought he liked

the taste of the burnt black

on his tongue.