I’ve never been much of a gambler.

Yet every night, like clockwork,

my dad shuffles a worn deck

between us,

and we play.

​

Round One: Luck

My first hand held nothing higher than a ten.

I stared at the cards,

thinking my disappointment might reshuffle them.

My dad only smiled.

“You can’t choose the hand you’re dealt,”

he said,

“only how you play it.”

​

Round Two: Patience

I spent an ace on a three.

He won without trying.

“Poker,” he said,

“isn’t a game of good cards. It’s a game of waiting.”

So I learned

that sometimes the strongest hand

is the one that stays hidden.

Still,

how long do you wait

before waiting becomes folding?

​

Round Three: Judgment

Two cards left in each of our hands.

His face reveals nothing.

No smile. No sigh. No tell.

I study his silence more than my own hand.

I play the higher card.

I win.

​

But even in defeat,

his expression never changes.

I wonder if the mask ever comes off.

Because even in a game against his own blood

His face is as cold as the king of spades.

And sometimes I catch my own reflection

In his eyes.

And wonder

if one day

I’ll sit across from someone I love

with a face

just as unreadable.

​

After all,

the card doesn’t stray far from the deck