7up

My father rewards my good behaviour
though I have no idea what I’ve done.
He sits me down on our sofa, its ripped
edges pierce my skin. My shuffling is

mistaken for nerves, his Duchenne smile
a comedic tragedy of sorts. More Melpomene
than Thalia. There is little sparkle in his eyes
now. Yet his shoulder eclipses the light bulb

as he stands, walking assured to the kitchen.
Bringing back a 7up bottle dripping in cold sweat,
hooking his canine underneath the cap then pulling
downwards. I watch his silhouette in awe,

I hear the sound the bottle makes when placed
on the table. My father rewards my good behaviour
with 7up. He pours it in glass only used for visitors.
For a moment, I see the dissipating foam as a dream.

He continues to gently pour then asks,
Do any men enter the house when daddy is at work?
A magician that knows when 7up reaches the rim
without overspill, without looking.

I shake my head side to side, holding a stare he soon
breaks. Am I in trouble now, Daddy? He knuckles the
filled glass towards me, then sits back, listening to each
gulp. I thank him, knowing I don’t know the good I done.