You were the ‘sweetie granny’.
Always with a sweet in your pocket,
or by the side of your bed
– something I tried (and failed) to copy
granny’s teeth are false – yours will fall out!
On birthdays, your sense of fairness
couldn’t give just one of us a present.
A small thing for the other two
out of love.
When we were homeless, you took us in.
Your small house, already full to bursting
while we healed.
Those last few months, you weren’t yourself.
You wanted to leave,
and I was torn between
and my loss.
When the time came, while others claimed to love you more,
we lowered your impossibly small body into the ground
My mum said:
she carried us, it’s our turn now.
And it was true.
We were lucky to have you,
but when that luck ran out,
we carried you.