Another Friday afternoon, the same weekend
goodbye, same walk from Mama’s car to inside
441, except this time, there’s a sunflower
neatly brushed onto canvas, wood-framed, bold
and bunkered to the wall
beside Dad’s bedroom door, smirking
yellow, leering
petals, a backdrop of raspy violet and I forget
to set down the weekend duffel bag
Mama packed plump with clothes
and a tucked-away cache of cookies,
just for me.  Bottom border,
below the sunflower stem, “Heidi”
in tittering cursive penned.

In the kitchen, the sizzling kettle
sings atop the burner, and Dad works the kettle
atop the burner, stands over the stove; I putz up
to Dad and ask through two missing teeth
and a faceful of cookies:
“Dad, what’s a slut?”
My little sisters are snug under blankets
in the next room, on the couch
watching Mulan, quoting the lines aloud,
and Dad looks over to see if they heard.
“Who’s Heidi?  Mama said Heidi’s your slut”
I say, my voice a little lower, a little softer.
The way Dad puts his finger
to his lips, I know
I’ve said something bad.

Five minutes later the bathroom door
is closed, the sink is running heavy, and Dad,
in there all alone, he’s arguing in muted tones
through gritted teeth.  I lie on my tummy just outside,
bowl of popcorn to my left and
printer paper to my right,
oil-yellowed popcorn grainy with salt
feels good against my tongue.
Crayon in hand.
Dad comes out and I surprise him
with a gift.  It’s a little sunflower
crayoned in brown,
my name at the bottom in block letters.
Dad breathes shallow, quick, and stunts out:
“Son, it’s wilting.”