My Father, who means well, makes me lunch A man who’s sandwiches could never be trusted, who used the mossy breadends cause thats how they did it on the farm but I am the cry baby who rejects the deadened bread, dark wilted lettuce spines lettuce rinds, inedible, unclean Perspiring, lovingly wrapped in cellophane And now I’m old enough I must so carefully control what’s between my full, whole, mid-loaf slices, Fret about gluten. Jesus help me I’m so afraid of invisible moulds and the taste of iron in those glossy cylinders of upended campbells tomato: quivering naked, vermillion in the pan, like chilled organs they appeared hepatic I’m sure the milk he adds is soured he cannot be trusted, my father, but forgive him he knows not what he does, I know they didn't have much on the farm I am spoiled like the milk, too sensitive, I wilt, because I have become too hard to feed, we didn't know what to do with this kind of love.