By Hand

Five years old, and sitting on a counter top
As my dad spread dough across a pan
Red sauce, white cheese, some beef, peppers and olives
The greatest dish, I thought then, known to man

I watched my father cook, create from nothing
His careful, patient hands would craft a meal
With crust perfectly smooth and round and even
For each detail, to him, was a big deal

A man whose human words would often fail him
Was teaching me his love for us through this
And pizza, to this day, when made home thusly
Has seemed to me more loving
Than a kiss

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Food for the Soul (and the┬áStomach).”

 

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