TRAGIC Poem: Papa, by Ally Kimmel

I remember the way you held my hand to cross.
Out behind the barn, moss cast a shadow,
over everything.
A rusty tire swing,
a dirty rug,
bugs in my hair –
in which North was told.
Your granddaughter,
I’m only a year old.
Beetles under rocks,
boxes stacked as mice swarmed.
Back inside,
my crib you rocked,
and while talking.
Low,
soft and slow.
I must’ve drifted off,
papa.

As you moved years later,
no more barn,
no more bugs,
no more dirty rug.
A couple square feet wide,
where you reside.
Still you held your pride.
A headband,
it was cold.

Still your granddaughter,
eight years old.
A duck pond,
your scraped knee,
tears that made the concrete sink.
I’m sorry,
I have to go home,
papa.

Down the road,
moved once more.
Smaller room,
as your independence.
No longer could you go out,
too much risk.
The hand that helped me cross.
If I knew then,
I wouldn’t have let go.
I would have crossed over and over.
My aunt’s house,
on the sofa you sat on.
The hand you held,
the other that plucked childishly
at your yamaha.
I sat and played for you
just how you did,
but I won’t sing yet,
I can’t.
I love you,
papa.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest