My Sombrero Is Too Big

I don’t like writing poems

about death, especially his,

because it would mean

having to accept that he

was never coming back

into this world to hold

my grandmother’s hand

and play that song on repeat

about getting sombreros

for Christmas.

It would mean no return

to draw whiskers

on my face in marker

stolen from my

Doodle Bear,

and it would mean

birthday cards

only from grandma

when it was always

from the two of them,

and it would mean

that he had passed

away and that I miss

him more than I ever

let on, because it’s hard

to let go of those

you never wanted

to leave.