"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden imitation.

Tuesdays too my father got up late
and put his clothes on in the twinkling sunlight,
then with calloused hands that bled
from the handles and heat cooked for all others to enjoy. He never ate it.

I'd wake and hear the toilet flush, the plumbing growl.
When it was time, he'd call,
and quickly I'd rise, pushing belongings underneath the bed
fearing my incomplete chores.

Speaking indifferently to him
who had sacrificed the time
and love as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of raising children and sheltering?