A poem wrote for my pop, who recently passed away.
He was full of character but I don’t think death means the end.
I sat in my bed last night.
I had a little cry.
I understood the logistics.
But it didn’t tell me why.
I crumpled up the tissues.
I threw them on the floor.
If this is what life had to offer me.
I wasn’t sure I wanted more.
It was then I felt your presence.
Your hand upon my shoulder.
I could feel you start to shake your head.
“why has no one told her?”
You told me your body had been old.
It had done what it needed to do.
That dying wasn’t painful.
More of a relief to you.
You told me your soul was still alive.
That it has always been quite strong.
That if I thought I was getting rid of you.
I really was quite wrong.
You said you would be there to watch me.
To help me and guide me through.
How could I live without your jokes.
Well that would never do.
I could feel you start to leave about then.
I tried to make you stay.
You said you had other people to go see now.
But asked me if I would pray.
I had never said a prayer before.
Not sure I can believe.
I asked for the courage to pass this message on.
It seems to have come to me.
I asked that when he comes to you.
You won’t pass it off as mad.
Let him support and talk you.
A pop, a man, your dad.
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