Albert don’t know shit from apple butter,
says my Dad, stirring a frying pan
of beans and franks. I’m seven years old,
watch some ash from his cigar drop in.
Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good, I think.
Albert, my uncle, can’t cook. Can’t drive a stick shift either.
I can drive a little, work the clutch and three on the tree.
Dad’s in a good mood. We skipped church,
let Mom and the girls try to get to heaven.
The only thing I liked about church were the
cookies and Dixie cups of fruit punch after.
I knew I was never going to heaven
because of my greed, the looks the pastor
and Uncle Albert gave me as I pigged out.
I told Dad I wasn’t going to heaven
and he laughed, delivered his comment on Uncle Albert.
Eat up while it’s hot, he says.
Mixes me a cup of half coffee, half milk,
four teaspoons of sugar.
It’s good and sweet.
First appeared in Off the Coast
Andy Roberts, a four time Pushcart Prize nominee, lives in Columbus, Ohio where he handles finances for disabled veterans. Since the mid-1980's his stories and poems have appeared in hundreds of small press and literary journals including Albatross, Atlanta Review, The Aurorean, Coal City Review, Chiron Review, Cloudbank, Fulcrum, Hiram Poetry Review, Lake Effect, The Midwest Quarterly, Mudfish, Pennsylvania English, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, and Tule Review, among many others. His latest collection of poetry is Yeasayer (Night Ballet Press 2016.)