Oh Danna Oh Danna Oh Danna

Dad loved shaking his head critically saying my name

yelling seconds later

as his veins popped

out of his neck.

A crimson face from raging.

90 years old.

Retired attorney.

I am his loving daughter.

My younger brother,

firstborn son,






A lifetime of

verbal abuse

killed his love

for his father.

As dad approached life’s end,

he’d sometimes call me David.

I’m Danna, I’d say. David isn’t here right now.

Dad taught me to be honest.

What’s the real reason you did this, he’d ask.

I’d answer truthfully.

Never could please him.

(He died age 91.)

Dad was highly intelligent.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t drink,

roadblock the brain’s synapses.

Dad’s final days in hospital

he begged me

begged me

begged me

bring him David.

And his grandchildren.

David said let me know when he’s dead.

Next time, dad, I will bring you David,

your firstborn son.

Writer and copyeditor. “What doesn’t kill us gives us something new to write about” ~ J. Wright

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