to give a grieving son comfort

My dad, nervous and tense

His jokes spilled faster than his tears

“See you later, mom” 

It’s funny because she’s dead

And it’s funny because it’s not

It’s funny because it has to be

Hands wringing the funeral program

Three times over during the Pastor’s prayer

Hymns droning but fingers folding

The program, over and over, 

A paper square three times smaller 

Because he could not be any less large

As the eldest brother of an orphaned three

I took his hand to calm him down

And he turned to me with a funny

Strained smile, all askew, plastered

Onto his face as if to comfort me instead

But it’s not my mother who died

But it’s not my mother who died

But it’s not my mother who died