Letting Go Of Papa's Hands

A little beer, vodka, whiskey
or rum
made Papa a little numb

He undressed me with eyes
and inside,
the little girl died

He showed me what love is not
Promised ponies,
"Come sit on Pap's lap, sugar honey"

Sister would not ever wear
that little white skirt again
Years later I understood why
she also lost that little girl inside

at three, he called my name
at four, I loved him so,
I played his little "love" game
but then one day I realized...

Papa's hands were not love
and,
at twelve, I hid the shame
at twenty, I cried in pain,
at forty, I no longer try to blame

He was buried without legs,
His lap no longer lived,
My little girl would never sit
or get the "love" that he had to give

You see, his legs were amputated,
years after his "sugars" grew up,
His "sugars" did visit him
though they would never let him touch

He lay sober in that bed in the end
in the nursing home before he died,
and the little girls now all grown up,
no longer cried inside

God did not forget his sin,
And yes, he suffered before his end,
and somehow we still loved him,
but we never loved his sin

He must have been broken,
but he missed out in his life
his alcohol was, he thought, his saving grace,
of ever loving his little granddaughters right.

Now that we are both grown,
we better understand,
and to get on with our own life,
we had to "let go" of Papa's hands.