Put On Your Braclet.

A poem about my father.

White metal thrashed against a pole
And your body explodes.
Back to dust.

Packaged.
Boxed.
Buried.
Sent.
And then we’re left to pay the rent.

Your eyes.
Mine.
They’re the same.
You’re living on in me.
Breathing from me.

And it’s not okay.
Quality time
Wasn’t meant to be spent
At a burial plot.

And I miss you,
Even though I never knew you,
I miss you.
And I hate you.
And I love you.
And I blame you.
And I need you.

This daughters heart,
Aches and breaks for you.
And it doesn’t matter,
Because you can’t turn dust,
Back to matter.