The grease won't budge I scrub the cotton white

The grease won't budge. I scrub the cotton white

until my knuckles ache against the sink.

The mirror shows the room in yellow light,

the tile a shade of dull and faded pink.

I see it on my leg, the textured patch,

the strawberry my father used to wear.

A rough and raised-up bit of skin to match

the way he stood and combed his thinning hair.