Orphan's Gift

Written by: Jack Jordan

That’s me there, the orphan,
the incomplete son of a dead man,
mother’s blue veins 
now solid as porcelain. 

When I was a young man of purpose
I went to my father’s grave
to take a photo of his aura. 
I expected an emanance, something
I hadn’t known of his life, 
but I was alone, 

just me and three graves:
his (I barely knew him),
my grandfather (a difficult man),
my stepfather (who never mattered).

There is a stone for my father,
none for the other two 
in that mass grave,
as if they never existed.

My mother designed
her death in advance,
“pre-planning” it’s called,
but she left the details 
to me, so

on the stone beside my father 
I gave back my father’s name,
my name,
her name before and now again
for as long as the dirt stays 
and isn’t tossed over the edge.