Granpa, I stand knee-deep in flood waters
That tried to wash away
My memories of you,
But these treasures in a
Cardboard storage box
I have recovered.
Granpa, silly man,
Wearing a wig
While infant hands held onto you.
Granpa, your handwriting
Looks exactly like mine,
Was it you who trained the pen in my hand?
Granpa, an old yellowed newspaper
Proclaims you're a survivor
Of a mine explosion that killed 18 others.
Granpa, here's the story
I wrote about that for a
creative writing class I never finished.
Granpa, I hate mines, but I love you, a miner.
I hate the mine that put the cancer in you.
In your lungs, the second suffocation.
Granpa, a stepfather I thought never loved me, hugged me
When he had to be the one to bear the news,
But you are the man who first took my heart.
Though parts of you remain an enigma
Like why you loved to watch the bullfights that made me cry
And why you wore that silly wig.