Next morning,
James in the kitchen,
white rice in a red pot.
He smells like cigarettes,
black hair sticking up.
I grab a bowl.
Life cereal.
A spoon.
He says I’ve got a birthday coming up,
asks if I want any rice.
I roll my eyes.
Who eats rice for breakfast?
He says he’s making it for Dad.
Mom had to work,
Dad’s been up all night,
in the bathroom.
Dad used to hold my hair back
when I was sick.
Now James is up all night with him.
I pour the milk.
Tell James he doesn’t need to take care of Dad.
He says he wants to, he loves him too.
I don’t give him a chance to say more,
just throw my spoon,
full bowl,
into the sink.
Rice boils over as I leave.