call your dad

My father had happy eyes,
carrying the food
for us to the table
as he has been known to do
on kind golden days of home,
days yellowed and strong
as the teeth he'd whistle through.

He loved me hard, and constant,
affection subtle and honest:
in his grin, and brows; the grill,
and my eggplant burgers on it.
I like the way he loved me.
Wasn't raw, or cooked to mush,
but perfect, balanced texture
seasoned well; flavor that hugged.

My dad fell over on me
on his way to bring the food,
and I caught him and I squeezed him
but he simply wouldn't move.

His failed heart stopping next to mine,
my waking eyes all watered -
I thank that ugly dream
for telling me to call my father.