gunshot!

Perhaps it is to lure
My mother upstairs
It’s better to be sure
So I’m sent up there

Terrified of father
Past validates fears
But me, he won’t bother
Month shy of six years
 
He’s not dead— just sleeping
A comb is in his hand
To fix his head— it’s bleeding
What don’t you understand

A book that’s far too loaded
Heavy page that can’t be turned
My mind slowly corroded
As the image in it burned

Many colors I had seen
My father still in bed
Yellow piping gym shorts green
The wall is splattered red

But I’d rather play outside
Tink’s on his swing next door
I tell Grampy “My dad died.”
But it hurt Granny more