He painted a rose
velvety pink and sharp at the edges
on a sheet of card stock
only slightly bigger than his bony hands
Stiff and sort of inflexible,
like he was
Below the rose
he wrote a poem in black pen
- not real nighttime black
but doubtful black
a charcoal of unsure letters
scribbled over damp watercolor paints
Not enough courage to say those words
with his uncertain lips
In the depths of my basement
I found a rusty razorblade
Carefully,
deliberately,
I sliced the artwork
cut out the rose
I tossed the poem
the doubtful charcoal words
into the lapping flames of the fireplace
I watched
that stiff card
those hollow letters
Eaten by the desperate heat of the fire
I only kept the part I wanted.