Father, please don’t

Father, you pray

and on the grave, roses, you place.

“It’s your name.”

Uttered you under the breath.

/

Father, you killed me,

but three years it took

for you to find my remains

on a carpet of black stain.

/

Father, you lament,

yet the dead will never come back

no matter how many flowers you plant.

Too late, it’s too late.

/

Father, you regret.

Watering roses with tears

you cry and cry

and a gun to the temple you point.

/

Don’t do it.

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