Emptiness grabs hold of me
makes the coffee bitter, the jam less sweet.
Daddy, your shirts
are in the closet.
For months I could not hug you,
to protect you from the virus.
You died anyway.
I want to be a girl again —
perched at the top of the stairs
I’d wait for you to come home,
like a tired sentry trying not to nod off.
Upstairs I’d hear you, thank the babysitter,
make scrambled eggs and sing—
Is that what you meant, Daddy
when you said, All the songs were for you —
