I will likely just buy a cake for his birthday:
I do not have the hands for pastry.

Like my mama, I have kitchen-sink, hearty-stew,
feed-an-army hands.

But still, I practice the preciously-small recipe
like it would mean something to anyone but me if I got
at least this
exactly right.

Sometimes I make such a human of myself:
big, hopeful dinosaur-hands pulling another
imperfect chocolate cake
out of the oven
too late.