Will you play me a song? I say.
I want to close my eyes
and see my daddy.
Granddad looks at me
for a long time.
His white hair, what’s left of it,
shakes.
Then he turns back to the dirt.
I don’t think these old hands
could play anymore, he says.
You should ask your aunt Bee
to play something for you.
Then he shoos me inside
to clean up for breakfast,
and I know our talk is over.
Gran will be in the kitchen,
flipping pancakes onto a plate.
But before I go,
I look at the dirt.
He’s written a word:
Play.
say that Granddad
is a stiff man who can’t hear
a heart’s cry for help.
But I think maybe
Mama’s got it all wrong.
My heart feels like
the bush I pass
on my way back up the porch,
like it holds glass tears.