Dear Papa,

Before your diagnosis we blew bubbles off the porch,

We rode on your big, black, bellowing motorcycle,

And talked about swimming.

After your diagnosis we wore masks and washed our hands in between hugs,

Overheard whispers of funeral planning,

And talked about what death means.

As the chemo shed your black hair and your energy to get up from bed,

They could barely get you to eat.

As the chemo killed your cancer cells it ruined your immune system too,

And when you went into remission we all cried tears of joy,

But when the cancer came back with the hatred of a woman scorned, we forgot what hope looked like.

Christmas gifts were purchased for a man who wouldn’t live to open them,

And when you passed away that early December my only Christmas wish was that I’d dreamt it all.

At the tender age of nine I lost my best friend.

The loss of you is something only time can mend.

 Sincerely, “Squirt”