Pa George fried Spam almost weekly;

with rice at Thanksgiving dinner,

or eggs in the morning.

He was native Hawaiian.

I think it reminded him of home.

I can’t recall ever eating

Spam he cooked for breakfast.

I was a picky eater then,

and he always made me something different.

I hadn’t yet been to Hawaii

didn’t understand the connection

how the saltiness might remind him of his home shore

or the musubis he got at the ABC store.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

It’s a quick and simple meal.

The kids will eat it.

I’m reminded of his bright white hair

his rough hugs

specific and warm voice

like melted butter and syrup on fresh pancakes.

He would have loved my wife

and my babies. He always said

he loved us the most when we were small.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

I think of the man who taught me how to shave

how to cut grass the right way

how I held his hand and he told me

“I love you dude”

his white Impala I drove

and the way the room

freeze-snapped cold

when his final breath rattled out.

Somewhere over the rainbow

he’s watching, waiting for us.

Gnarly toenails he never cut

in Birkenstocks far before they were cool.

He never let anyone buy his meal

but his presence alone was already

a debt unable to be paid.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

I miss my Pa George even more.