His Story Is Written

I wrote my dad a poem, one year. Thought he was clearing his voice. He was choked up with tears, something I never expected. Mom died. Those tears became a torrent. Endearment. His story is written, not on fancy paper but in martini glasses, cheers, in the blanket, on the love seat, at the table with the blinds - mom saw only once before cancer sent her to the place of no return. I brought balloons. The giant one said Happy Father’s Day. Accompanying those three pink and one blue - representative of the love that surrounds him. we’ve got you, dad. you’re not alone. your children have you. …and dad, you both were great parents.