a letter to my 爸爸(baba)i’m in my own little cornerof San Francisco as pineapple mint tonicbubbles against my tongue.

more mint than pineapple and it’s got that greentaste (like a reminder): to frivolously spendfour dollars, to double pressa button and extend my armtowards the checkout for a soda—

my dad’s lips never touched four-dollarsoda tonic cans; his hands never helda cello bow, his own father never paidfor a high school education

but he looksat my monolid eyes beggingand hesitates for only a secondbefore furrowing his brow and reachinginto his pocket

(for anything)—

he must see the way my full-moon cheeks eclipsemy monolidded eyes;cheekbones stand tall and wide (landmarks);dimples pressed; all like him

so he peelsopen bruised leather(edges frayed; loosening fibers dancingagainst a black backdrop)and he presses blue plasticagainst cream sensor.

my heart pulses against my 100% cottonshirt (he paid for it too) and I wonder:

what is this feeling?