If I can call you that,
Would you have loved me as a child of your child?
That is what I am.
You left my mother so many times,
Wounded a part of her spirit she doesn’t like to show,
And left my grandmother with a chip on her shoulder and a mark on her soul.
But yet, I long to know you.
You died last year, in Washington, alone.
500 miles from anyone who knew your name.
To my mother and her mother before her, you are the scum of the earth
And yet I long to know you.
If I can even call you that,
Would you have loved me as the child of your child?
Or left me wanting like my mother before me.