My Mother Sporting Her Afro at Burger King for My Birthday
Ilari Pass
1976
This is my father’s favorite photograph: my mother sitting
like a queen, blushing.
She was embarrassed,
he says,
but he loved her halo of splendor and coaxed her to show it off.
The photograph is fading,
bearing the orange and moss hues of an out-of-date polaroid,
but I can still see the bright sky-blue floral pattern all over
her blouse. My mother’s brown eyes stare meekly up at the camera,
freckles sprinkled
just under her eyes, dimples formed in the upper part of
her cheeks, lending character to her smooth features
She was, after all, pregnant with her fourth
and never as comfortable showing her shapely figure
as my father was comfortable talking about Playboy
Her dark ginger hair hedges over her shoulders
framing a soft chiseled jawline and slender faired neck. She puts
her right hand out to hold my left hand, ready to assemble the crown
it lays flat. Sitting in her lap; knees hidden
from the table. My father is lifting
the camera, telling us to look up.
