It’s a round of batter and butter

Fried in a pan (never a griddle)

It’s my father

Spatula in hand

It’s my father’s

Father’s

Father

Settled in a La-Z Boy,

Syrup running down his chin

It’s you did good, Trav.

It’s a mistake

Wrinkly and runny, insides sizzling at the bottom of the pan

It’s a Sunday morning

Big hands over small ones

One cup flour, one cup of milk, one tablespoon of oil…

It’s the perfect flip —

Accompanied by a pat on the back

It’s my father

Settled in a chair,

Chewing his way through a mouthful

It’s way to go, Emz.