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
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