I know why they call it a blade of grass

I’m not angry with you, Uncle.

Although you forgot my birthday, and killed

yourself trying to mow the grass.

I can forgive forgetting my birthday,

since you’d already made your mistake.

I can forgive your stupid stubbornness

as I see where I get mine.

But, Uncle,

I don’t understand.

What about those green knives

sprouting from the soil

was worth your death?

I’ll accept that you didn’t know

it would be fatal,

but you had to know the danger.

You knew you weren’t well.

My last text from you

is a belated birthday wish,

green as the grass you

sacrificed yourself for.

I heard about your less-than-majestic downfall

when Dad texted to say that

you were withering.

The messages are as blue

as your funeral flowers.

Maybe I am a little angry, Uncle.

Angry that I spent my birthday

weekend wearing black.

Angry that I never got to say

goodbye to you.

Angry that I didn’t spend

enough time with you.

Angry that you decided to

mow that damn grass.

Uncle, maybe I am a little angry.

As published in the Spring 2020 Issue of Stillpoint Literary Magazine