Mama gave it
To me last summer
Another useless souvenir
Of the father I never knew.
Spring cleaning
I threw away
The naphthalene smelling
Velvet lined
Green Jaded coat.
A note flew out
From the only inner pocket
It had.
I opened it
To find a letter
From this father of mine
“To my unborn child…”
I hugged it
Twenty-five years of tears began to flow.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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