Beautiful, resonant work from Miss Georgia Park

A collective of fictional poetry by anonymous contributors

My father’s cats
are even more
than I am
but they flock
to him.

I remember how
his voice was
when he sang
to one of them
who was dying.

My father picks
for the kitchen,
chops wood
for the living room
and he cooks
for all of us
even though now,
he has a bad hip.

My father still
speaks kindly
of my mother-
even after everything
that’s happened

and he says to me,
“Please, don’t
ever let anyone
make you feel
like you can’t
come home again.”

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One thought on “Home

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