"Dad's dead," I said to the dentist.

Dad’s dead, I say to the dentist—
in my head. 
He’s pointing at Sofie’s wisdom teeth scans. 
Explains the inevitable, 
At least two but better to do all. 
Maybe you go home and discuss with dad and then let me know. 

Dad’s dead, sits on the tip of my tongue. 
Wants to tumble out—
blunt and plain as day. 

I ask him what the cost is. 
Tells me the front desk can help with that.
You can discuss with dad when you get home. If you guys think it’s too expensive you are free to look around. But you discuss with dad. 

Dad’s dead, 
like Tourette’s wanting to sputter out. 

We are almost done with the appointment 
when Sofie asks if she will have to be put under. 
Not necessarily, he says. 
Front desk will tell you the cost.
Then you discuss with dad. 

I can’t anymore. 

He passed away a few years ago, I force myself to say, politely.
Not using the word death but the nice version—
passing away. 

I register the caught off guard look.
Kicking himself for so many mentions of dad.
Maybe, maybe not.
Or maybe he’s just thinking of the next patient.