The other day I was browsing the internet,
desperate to find the perfect gift for my dad.
I typed and clicked, over and over,
from a mountain bike to a custom embossed pen, 
when I found myself on a random page,
where I spotted a simple, ceramic mug.

No early 2000’s song could send one into the past more suddenly.
A past where I sat at a booth in a diner
next to my older sister, the heavy, spiral-coil menu, 
hard to hold in our small hands.
It is 6am on Friday morning.
Across from us is our dad, suited up and clean shaven.
We waited all week for this.

The waiter always laughed at our order of spaghetti and ice cream,
our dad’s idea of a balanced breakfast. 
We wore flimsy napkin bibs that he frequently adjusted–
over our white uniforms–concerned that we not go to school 
with chocolate stains as evidence of our weekly excursion. 

He only ever drank coffee from a simple ceramic mug,
stirred together with two Sweet’N Lows.
It did not stop him from yawning,
though I only remember him smiling.

And here I am, looking to buy a simple, ceramic mug–
which can be personalized for an extra two dollars–
for the man who carved out time from his busy schedule,
to watch his daughters eat spaghetti and ice cream for breakfast.

As I add the mug to my cart, 
I think of those two little girls, bellies full, hugging their dad so tight,
and I am as sure as a daughter can be
that the only present he has ever needed is us.