Smoky and fresh,
Sneaks under my door.
My foot falls away from the warm spot of my sheets.
I let my balmy toes grip the cold wooden boards.
Silk slides across my knees as I squeeze through the crack of the door.
I look across to the little room across the narrow hall.
My nightgown skims the floor.
I creak across the cold cramped space.
The hall is dark, but in the room
The hot pink walls scream bright, even in the morning’s dim light.
I look up at the ironing board,
Feel the steam from the white shirt hit my face,
A soothing breath.
His pants pressed, placed on the chair.
I pick them up, step into them,
My whole body snug in one leg,
Slide under the ironing board,
Sitting in a swirl of steam.
The sleeve dangles next to me.
Wrapped in a warm swathe,
I hear the spray of the water bottle,
And the sizzle of smoothing cotton.
I see the sleeve slide away.
From where I lay I look up at my dad’s legs.
He knelt next to me.
“Back to bed.”
He coaxes me from my cocoon,
Lifts me to his hip.
I press my face against his freshly ironed shirt,
And fall asleep to the smell of