Who puts blackberries in pancakes?
Blackberries aren't like blueberries;
They're big and mushy and black and too sour for a pancake
for the a.m., they wake me up too fast
when I don't want to be lucid.
That's why I was mad when I said that to my dad.
"I hate blackberry pancakes."
"Fine." He replied, equally as stubborn.
I marched away in time,
and ended up somewhere
in the stupid radius of my house;
with no where else to go.
I came back an hour and a half later
with some real hunger in my stomach
and looked around for those damned blackberry pancakes.
There were none.
I was mad.
How dare they not save me pancakes!
thinks my mind.
I grumble on and on, mutely,
about the gravity of the situation.
Me! I want my damned blackberry pancakes!
Then I see them, sitting politely on the counter.
They heard it all.
Sheepishly, I perambulate towards the stack of pancakes.
Sorry.
Silence ensues.
Hey, I said I was sorry. What more do you want?
Pancakes are so uptight.
They just sat there
Stared back with their ugly blackberry stains
Kind of bringing to mind ugly birthmarks.
They work me up, y'know,
Just keeping so painstakingly still and silent
So the silence grows and even builds a dynasty
In that time.
I just give up,
I go to the refrigerator
And get a damned Coca-Cola
And suck away at the damned Coca-Cola
Like I just opened happiness itself.
I gloat it in front of the pile of pancakes.
I smirk inwardly as the ugly, birthmarked, stained, silent, awkward
Pile of pancakes stares back.
It wasn't until my mother said something to me
That I had realized
I had just spent my morning moments
With pancakes.
And even then,
We still couldn't agree on anything.
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