You sit there,
in my dreams,
in your ratty, blue recliner
with that stupid grin on your face.
I showed you my teeth before bed,
and you would feign being blinded every day.

But now you’re gone,
and your ratty, grease-stained clothes are ash in our skeleton house,
and hanging on the rack at Goodwill.

I hated that you said “Howdy”
like you were from the west.

You thought everything was as cool as ice,
and it drove me crazy.

I hope you’re happy that all those times
we told you to get out and do something were wasted,
and now I can barely sleep at night.

My nightmares haunt me like your blotchy,
bloated belly did when we found you.

I can’t forget the way your legs
were yellow and
blue and
white in places as I tried
to get you out of your chair.

I guess we should have done more to get you healthy.

I know you don’t mean to, Dad,
but you’re haunting my dreams.