My father found God
In a styrofoam cup
The type you find in church basements
And meeting houses
Next to a hand written sign that says

Coffee 1.00

Group hasn’t started yet
Shuffling feet and zoom meeting “can you hear me?” plays like a background 
12 step lofi beat
I’m looking at the sign
Wondering if a cup of coffee cost him a dollar in 1990

For most of my life I thought my father got sober on his own
cold turkey
A boot straps story some part of me clung to with pride
Until my brother told me
“Nah sis, he went to AA, and NA, I remember going with him”

I myself had spent time in AA rooms, not for an addiction
Helping others so I didn’t have to focus on myself
So I’d spent some time in AA rooms
Indulging my addiction

I inquired
I received
Story time turned jubilee
A retelling of how my father found brotherhood and sobriety
Slapped bag balm on generational wounds
Making amends with his father
His fathers father
“I was just working the steps” he said
I’m swollen with pride again

“Ok! Let’s get started” 

I remember where I am 

“Hi, I’m Morgan. I’m the adult child of an alcoholic.”

Now I’m working a different 12 steps
I hope to God I find something 
At the bottom of this styrofoam cup