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.
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