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The bread is rising,
slowly in the unseasoned cold.
I fill the solitary morning
With baking and yoga and the radio.
It’s too cold and wet to garden
and I’m sore from yesterday’s digging.
Life tells me that father’s day is not for me anymore
Because there are supposedly no fathers in my life anymore:
my own, father of my birth
dead three years, unmet the prior twelve;
The father-of-my-heart,
also passed,
and never really mine.
The father of my children,
who exclude me from their father’s day
siloing the celebration—
One for mothers
One for fathers.
As if they have nothing to do
One with the other.

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