As I look at my dinner plate I think back on meals past

And none of them quite noteworthy as a Saturday morning breakfast plate.

Made in the early afternoon by my father as he said "only the best for my baby girl"

Piling bacon and biscuits and eggs drowned in hot sauce onto my plate

But now I'm left with only crumbs and an oily residue

Sure to be hard to remove, the bittersweet remnants of a meal

I hoped would never end