I don’t like writing poems
about death, especially his,
because it would mean
having to accept that he
was never coming back
into this world to hold
my grandmother’s hand
and play that song on repeat
about getting sombreros
for Christmas.
It would mean no return
to draw whiskers
on my face in marker
stolen from my
Doodle Bear,
and it would mean
birthday cards
only from grandma
when it was always
from the two of them,
and it would mean
that he had passed
away and that I miss
him more than I ever
let on, because it’s hard
to let go of those
you never wanted
to leave.