Miscommunication

Miscommunication

The meals at my house
never sing a tune of
steamed asparagus over
a brew of hot, hot
vegetable juice filled
with raw potato shavings;

a poor man clinging
to the edge of the kitchen stove,
burning his hands to warm them.

Father’s pressing fate
of high cholesterol
and amputated limbs ignored-
a game of who gets the last Twinkie turns
into a game of who gains the most.

Mother shames me
for swallowing too quickly,
“At least twenty times.”

Now I refuse to eat in public because...

I eat whatever is placed in front of me,
chicken and rice,
peas or green beans- all the goods
tasting of the blood and sweat sacrificed
to bag them, store them in a factory,
ship them down the aisles
of a Wal-Mart Superstore.

But every time I read an article about
nutrition,
I am left with a crisis:

Each morning I forget
that breakfast is the most important meal
of the day.

Each night I forget
that my plate should be colorful,
not bland and packed with starches.

And every time I visit my dad
I forget to warn him of
his high risk behaviors.

Honestly,
I can’t remember the last time we
had a serious conversation.

He doesn't own a dinner table,
so whenever he makes a plate,
he drags his swollen feet up
the steps to his bedroom
and eats alone.

I see from below
his TV lights flicker
and I realize I've never eaten
like a rich man either:
surrounded by those
he thinks are his friends.

At least his table is never
empty.