There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me up and dance me around on his Old Brown Shoes. My name is Blueberry Joy, and my Papa and I share a birthday.Shared.My legs are slick with urine. My toes stop wiggling and I sit up on my elbows. Strip the sheets and stuff the soggy underwear deep into the hamper.At the table, Mama slumps over an untouched mug of coffee, red eyed. "Good morning, Shortcake. H-Happy Birthday." She wipes a string of snot