Coffee with My Father


We were having coffee in
the food court of our
neighbourhood mall,

when my father asked me if
I like it here,
a month since
we arrived,

[we ran out of stories from our
tours to Montreal
and Quebec,
beautiful places,

when the pictures were upload
of the obligatory visit
to see Niagara Falls,
when I get
my driver’s licence I’ll spend
more time on the city,

the jet lag has worn out,
thank goodness,

the cold starts to seep in,
it never quiet left this year,
they say.

We need jobs.]

I said, “It’s okay”,
keeping the questions
closed-ended.

He looked defeated.

“I guess so,” he succumbs,
“A lot of white people,

just like in the movies.”

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