CW: incarceration

Dad took us to Taco Bell and told us to order 

whatever we wanted—before growth spurts

made feeding us too expensive.

My eyes lit up with the possibilities of the menu

and I read it top to bottom, peering over

the counter. I ordered the Mexican pizza, 

a new thing to me, but I knew it would be good 

because it was pizza and it was Mexican 

and I loved burritos.

Years later, Dad wasn’t allowed to carry 

money so he’d peruse the vending machines 

and we’d buy him whatever he wanted. 

We stayed the whole day in that grey room

playing Uno with a deck missing cards.

Mom and Dad holding hands across the table, 

us on one side Dad on the other. Behind our

conversation, doors clanged and prisoners

milled around the microwaves heating up 

burritos.

Red Morgan is a poet living in Durham, NC, with her partner and four cats.