Saturday Pancakes

He scooped in the slick knob of lard
then poured the sweet pale Bisquick out
and a scalded sizzling spitting ensued,
edges crisping to a grainy rind, bubbles
breaking out all over the top. And in less
than a minute the oil-soaked cake was
ready for the plate.

Our father’s cakes were as thin
as the flesh of a tire’s inner tube,
they tasted of fire and oil and burned wheat,
we drowned them in cooling syrup and wiped
our lips and carried our plates to the stove
where he stood humming over the red-hot,
smoking cast-iron pan.