10 am 
Saturday  
 
pancakes. 
 
sweet and milky and buttery smells pull me into a hug  
Like Dad’s old sweatshirt that I stole, 
my favorite worn-out hoodie that smells like home. 
 
That’s what pancakes on a Saturday morning smell like. 
Home.  
 
I slide down the wooden stairs, 
With fluffy sock skates  
glide into the kitchen  
 
I know it’s Saturday because of  
Mom’s damp rose scented hair  
Dad’s rainbow tie dye Ben and Jerry’s shirt 
A late morning sun beam peeking through the blinds.  
 
And 
The perfect pancake in the making.  
 
I’m 5 years old again 
Standing on a little tikes step stool  
Pouring rainbow sprinkles into the bland beige batter 
 
Dad pours the excess batter into the pan 
To make his signature Saturday “perfect pancake” 
 
Every Saturday he tries to beat last week’s record  
For the biggest  
And the best  
 
But he loses patience 
And fails to understand that  
The perfect pancake doesn’t exist  
 
He tosses it into the trash 9 times out of 10, 
Sighing  
Angered that he can’t make the perfect pancake for his “perfect” daughters  
 
But I hug him and reassure  
That not everything needs to be perfect  
 
And not everyone needs to be perfect  
 
Not even giant Saturday morning pancakes  
 
Or  
A tie dye wearing  
pancake making  
father   
 
Yet next Saturday (and the next) 
And the next  
He tries again 
Determined to make a perfect pancake 
 
When the attempt to make a perfect pancake doesn’t end in an angry tornado of raw batter,  
 
It ends in sticky fingers  
Laughter as light as the whipped cream coating my tongue,  
silky swirls of chocolate chip nostalgia   
 
and the sweet sentiment of a perfectly imperfect pancake