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Health Class

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I hand Mr. David my calorie-counting log, a dwindling Fibonacci: 
800 Monday, 500 Tuesday, 300, 100, 100, 0.
Strolling forth, doesn’t shake his head in dad-like disappointment
like I had thought. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, 
“that my numbers are so low—I was sick this week.”
Maybe registering that I’ll be sick next week,
he glances at the other students, says, “Get back to normal soon.”
Last night I’d almost gone 

to sleep completely empty—when my dad barged in,
flamboyant as a waiter on his first day, holding two salads
he’d salvaged from his backyard garden:
arugula gnarled with neglect, and grape tomatoes
squinched like revolted noses. And profuse as vomit, 

his homemade vinaigrette he knew I loved, or used to love,
since it quickened the rigor of swallowing.
That’s how to acknowledge a father’s love, I thought,

—though you’d rather not exist, eat the salad, prove

he’s grown something that takes up space.