Tender Thinking
Your nose bled last night,
suddenly, without reason
except for the blood thinners you're on,
but then you are almost ninety-three.
I worried about you, my historical, fun loving father,
though we laughed when I said,
"You'd better not die before your book launch,"
and you asked, "Can I die after?"
Still we put our joking away
when we heard the little girl inside me begging,
"Please don't die, Daddy and leave me an orphan,
please, please, please, although I'm sixty-three."
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