It’s just a piece of toast.
Bread. Heat. Butter.
Last season’s apricot jam.
It’s just breakfast. Just
simple carbs and a little fat
so that their brains can
function better, bodies
can move without hunger.
It’s just a few bites
that disappear in moments.
No one looks at the meal tenderly.
No one thinks, oh, my mom
must really love me—
look at the way she spread the butter
so evenly to cover all the bread.
No one thinks, she knows
just how light, just how dark
I like my toast. No, they just eat it
and rush toward the door.
Some part of me is grateful
they take it so for granted,
believing love is as easy
as pushing down a toaster lever,
as simple as saying thanks.