did you like your whiskey neat,
or was it moonshine that you favored?
Somehow, I imagine storebought,

and not because the only story I ever heard
about you, growing up, is how you’d slither back
into your parents’ home and to my father’s room

to rob his piggybank to fund your drink.
To think that’s all I know of you, grandfather.
To think that’s all of you your namesake told us.

You weren’t a young man, Grandfather.
The cusp of thirty when he was born,
a few months past when his mother died.

Was it grief that sent you to the bottle?
Somehow, I imagine not.

How does it feel, Grandfather, to be
the villain in your own family’s tales?
Is there an argument for your defense?

I’m here, and though my father held
his grudge close to his heart until that heart
grew tired and faltered into silence,

it’s not too late to soften mine toward you.
Tell me what wounding left you indifferent
to the boy you fathered. Tell me you tried

and failed and tried again. I’ve heard
forgiveness is a gift, but mostly to the one
who offers it. I’m still waiting, grandfather,

here with a pen in hand, a blank page
ready for your words.