i dress myself in a bacon cheese burger

well done so that
the meat is the color
of rich soil. a sear on
top & bottom. three patties
on a pan simming like lily pads.
put the cheese to my forehead
& wait for it to melt against my skin.
my dad eats a bacon cheese burger
wherever he goes. he's open 
to most interpretations. he told 
a waitor once 
he did not know what to get 
if there was no bacon cheese burger.
sweat & grease are the same.
i made one for my dad once.
all i coukd think was too much.
i make a skirt of iceberg lettice.
when i sit down
the stalks crunch. i am a single tooth.
my dad waits all day to eat.
swallows whole. chews messily.
wipes his mouth with
a paper napkin. even when
i'm not with him i look for
bacon cheese burgers on menus.
i order one & set it out
as if it will summon him. 
sometimes it does. he hugs me tight.
he loves me too much & 
it terrifies me. did he always 
love me this much? why did i
not always think so? 
his throat is sometimes
a long hallway full of guitars.
i put sliced tomatoes on my chest
even though i don't have breasts
anymore. i imagine dad wearing them
on his chest too. this could make
a great photograph in a museum:
father & son or maybe son & father. 
it takes heat to make. some restaurants 
place the bun on the grill as well
to toaste the bread. onions, i could
wear as earrings if need be.
i crouch on a blue tarp & instruct my dad
to dose me in condiments. every kind of touch
is intimate. i misremember 
his fingers often. round & callous
like a mound of potatos. he puts his hands
on my back, arm, leg, ear &
tells me he is hungry. i plant him
in the dirt of a burger 
so that he might swell & take root.
my father is a sesame seed
rocking on the surface of a bun. 
if so, then maybe
i am just a bystander. 
he picks his teeth with 
a blue tassle tooth pick.