Story Problem

From the deep well of his striped bib overalls 
Father would pull his pocket knife

and score the candy bars— 
always two, always something

with nuts and stretchy caramel 
and covered in thin skins of chocolate.

He’d divide each sweet sentence 
into six carefully equal phrases.

Much later, with five loves of my own, 
I recall his diligent portioning,

his steadying the knife-holding 
hand with the palm of his other,

and leveling his eyes 
before making the final divisions.

He’d disregard what he knew 
of the hour’s bone-picked child,

disallowing any inclinations to oversize 
the portion meant for her

or to undercut the portion 
for the chronically grumbling one.

For the fortunate one, he was always 
more than fair.