in the brokenness of his words.
He knew the words
before his brain began to die.
He spoke the words
before his brain began to die.

I hear my father's heart
in the skips and starts,
the stuttering frustrations
of his voice.
The voice that scolded and teased,
that soothed and laughed,
the voice that prayed gentle prayers
and loving blessings.

I hear my father's heart even
when the words don't come.
He tries to tell me that he's proud of me,
that he's proud of my husband, that I've been
a good daughter,
a good wife,
a good mother.
I know this is what he's saying.

I know my father's heart.