Baba

Baba sent me an article once that

People who choose my major 

Make the least money of the top ten

Majors who make the least money

I would be content to eat the stars

And live in the dirt like it owned me 

And that’s not out of passion, 

Just out of gratitude for all that 

Has been kept out of my hands 

For my own good

When I hold people my brain

Keeps dragging me back to when

I was young and Baba could fit 

Both my hands into his, and when

It was cold, he’d breathe 

Warm air onto them, so I didn’t 

Mind the cold like I do now

I sewed my father’s pants last night 

I wanted to do the job well

My father is not always expressive 

But each time he sees me reading Twilight 

He asks me how the vampires are doing 

My father and I have the simplest 

relationship in my life; I love him 

I want his pants to be sewed so well

No one can tell they were broken in the first place