If I had liked ham
maybe I wouldn’t have
disappointed at least one person.
She’d reveal the surprise,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
the scent lingering from outside.
But it wasn’t me and I’d wrinkle
my forehead, politely thank her,
and eat my turkey, the ham meeting
with praise from enough
for my neglect to not seem to matter.
She’d notice, apologize, and make
a mental note that Brian doesn’t like ham,
a mental note she’d promptly lose.
And for the next gathering
requiring food preparation,
we’d repeat the game.
I still don’t like ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.