(Inspired by a pair of children in a program where I work.)
Papa was sad and no one knew.
He had smiled and played with me
before sissy and I left to
have an night out with our Mommy.
We came home, there were flashing lights,
neighbors whispering all around;
old ladies were saying last rites
weren't valid, the way he was found.
Then, for weeks, we had dressed in black,
there was a funeral and a grave.
Papa’s not going to come back,
‘cause he’s not Jesus in his cave.
He’s not going to see us grow.
He won’t be at our baseball games.
He can’t tell us what we should know.
He didn't love us, as Mommy claims.