My Grandmother
My Grandma’s Letters
Leftover letters, building up in that chest
she always told me someday I would care
for when she was gone, finally at rest.
I was then more concerned with my hair.
As she’d taught me how to paint a flower,
she tried to steady my trembling hand.
I only wish I was a better listener
of her stories of a make-believe land,
like her orphaned boy who found a safe home
or perhaps how her words on blank paper
melted into “My Dear Lisa,” a poem
for my mother; she was no amateur.
Then I held her hand as her heart let go
Now, her image plays in a home video.
Leftover letters, building up in that chest
she always told me someday I would care
for when she was gone, finally at rest.
I was then more concerned with my hair.
As she’d taught me how to paint a flower,
she tried to steady my trembling hand.
I only wish I was a better listener
of her stories of a make-believe land,
like her orphaned boy who found a safe home
or perhaps how her words on blank paper
melted into “My Dear Lisa,” a poem
for my mother; she was no amateur.
Then I held her hand as her heart let go
Now, her image plays in a home video.
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