The idea for this poem popped into my brain… I can’t remember what I was doing.. so weird. I had an additional three lines at the beginning that I realized were just ramp so I cut them. But maybe they’re needed? Also not sure if I’ll keep the format so straightforward and left-aligned.

In the door of the refrigerator,
I tiptoed for the half-and-half.
Mother said I should shake hands
with father. Father said Yes and drank
the dregs of his coffee as they sat
together at the breakfast bar.
I set down the cup in my hand.
Father stood up by the stove, both coiled.
The low sun beamed in the windows,
creating a nimbus around mother,
a gleam off the faucet. My confusion stared
back at me from the toaster. I rubbed
my girl-child hand on my pajama leg.
Father's gaze was healing
from the accident, his one eye
scarred and blank. I concentrated
on his still-working, chocolate shake eye,
which he could still wink. He held out his hand.
I shook it quickly like a dishtowel
and turned away. No, they both said,
shaking their heads. The timbre
in their voices got my attention.
I looked from mother to father.
Try again, said mother. I focused
on father's hand -- wide palm, short
fingers, flared nails. Father lifted
my chin. Keep eye contact,
he said, his brow bone ghostly
with crosshatches. This time
I leaned into the handshake,
my eyes on father, letting go
of his hand like burnt toast.
Father's one cream and sugar eye
insisted. Hold my hand firmly
one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Mother smoked, her ear to the phone,
the fingers of her other hand
bracketing a pale cheek.
I extended my hand. I held his gaze.
I counted one-one-thousand,
two-one-thousand. I greeted father
in our kitchen as if he was a stranger
I was encountering for the first time.
His hand was warm and dry.
His one eye fizzed like coca-cola.
I met him with my open palm.
We clasped hands like a gift,
two people in the moment,
equal in every way.
Good, said mother.
Good.