I know when one is on the Internetz toiling their life away into the abyss, most people think “Gosh, I just wish someone would write a good poem about their dead grandma that they miss so much. That would be really satisfying.” Well, the wait is over folks!!
Have you ever just loved someone so much and then you write a poem about them and you read it and you go “Hey, that’s me. You are me.”
My grandma was born a white trash princess dressed in Shirley Temple curls always pouting. My grandma was a judgmental bitch. My grandma loved you so much she would sign over her Social Security check to you so you could buy your drugs. My grandma fucking hated everyone. My grandma would forgo her medication so you could buy the baby some new Air Jordans. My grandma waited up until you finally came home.
My grandma was “God dammit!” this and “Jesus Christ!” that and “What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you have any goddamn sense?” She was private love and public complaints.
My grandma was grape kool-aid and Pringles and Symphony candy bars.
My grandma was Steakums and potato soup. She was a skillfully flipped fried egg. On a good day she was coconut cake and Salisbury steak and real mashed potatoes (not the instant kind). My grandma was peanut butter fudge covered in wax paper once or twice a year if we were lucky and it set right.
My grandma was a grilled cheese sandwich thrown on top the kitchen cabinets because you cried when she cut it into squares instead of triangles.
My grandma was hair braided so tight she could give a second-grader a facelift.
My grandma kept grudges. My grandma forgave everyone their trespasses. My grandma hyperbolized and bent the truth a little or a lot through her false teeth because she knew how to tell a good story.
My grandma was an asthma attack hunched over a chair. She was stolen breaths from an inhaler that tasted so good when no one was around.
My grandma was heavy breasts swinging in a moo moo nightgown. She was tiny, quiet feet dancing through the halls, the outline of those little goblins in a Pac Man video game.
My grandma was a desperate ache in the chest; the need to know everyone was safe at all times. She was a Nosy Rosie, as gossipy as the days are long. She was a narc, a spy, a secret keeper. She was suffocating. She was lovely. She was kind. She was constant.
My grandma was tears welled up that would make you regret everything you did that caused them. My grandma was the kind of love impossible to not disappoint.
My grandma was a red babushka that I can still feel and smell anytime I remember.
She was a soft baby cheek and a gimme a kiss before you leave and an always I love you goodbye.
Bottom of Form