When Daddy came home 
from the chocolate factory

in his batch-stained khaki pants 
and shirt, he smelled of roasted 

cocoa beans and sharp, dark liquor:
smokey earth, espresso and spice.  

Layered, round aromas of a 
secret brotherhood. A ladder

of smells: musk, tobacco, leather 
and fruit. The front door opened

on our sober Midwest home, and a
history of chocolate came through—

the daily coda edged with nerves.
He filled the doorway, a dark complex 

more variable than the beans.
I scanned his face for favor.