I flip the pancake over like  
you've flipped my love for you.  
The skillet hot with butter  
and a splash of oil.  
The batter becomes thick,  
flattening on one side
raising before falling.  
The edges becoming crisp,  
a mix of heart and soul  
and all the simple, consistent
consideration in between.  

When I am alone, I can make  
the perfect pancake.  
But when someone is watching,  
I flip the batter too soon.  
The circle is broken, and the batter  
bakes unevenly on the skillet.  
It still doesn't take away from the taste.  
Sometimes, I still feel like a fool.  

All it takes is the heat of reciprocation
whether the spatula is cheap or  
expensive.  
I eat it anyway,  
just like you've flipped my love for you.  
I brought a better spatula.  
I'll drizzle you in butter and syrup,
and eat until I can't anymore.