Father, forgive me if I seem

to use your death

to add commotion to a poem.

How talk about you and not

feel that way?

This morning, you are with me

again, for no discernible

reason. So, this poem.

It calls your name. It is as full

of grief as a jail

even four years later. Yet it

is still about me. Your death is

my blood now, my ink.

Father, I am, finally, your death.