May I be excused?

I’ve dreamt of this meal, since my small hands
baked mud pies with grass toppings and stone decorations
for my imaginary husband.

Sitting to my father’s left, with halting words
he bares feelings, intentions, which fall to the table
amongst steaming roast beef and new potatoes.

My father examines all that's been laid before him.
Chewing his meat slowly, searching his eyes
my father finds a spark, as my mother’s father found in him.

He looks to my mother with bitter-sweet resolve
smiling at the time they knew would come,
A single tear glistens in his eye

and Daddy excuses me from his table for the last time.