I kept your last
birthday card to me;
tucked it between
books on my shelf,

not knowing then
it would be the last;
your small simple script
and name, artwork done,

received with all the rest
that day, last year.
I have taken it out
a few times now,

read the script over
and over, as if maybe,
more words
might appear,

than those before.
I hold it in my hands
and imagine where
your fingers touched,

where your pen
scribed the words,
and for that frozen moment
capture part of you again,

that feel, that ghostly smell,
thinking maybe
my fingers are, where
your fingers were,

your DNA mixing with mine,
mixing together
like good scotch, not wine.
I shall keep

your birthday card to me,
keep it safe, re-read
now and then,
pretend each year

it came from you,
anew, fresh written,
your fine small hand;
waiting each birthday

for it to land,
the birthday card
from my eldest son
(now dead), and when

my birthday comes around
once more, I shall take
the card out and read
with all the rest that came,

keeping you you always
in my heart and head,
with your small scribed,
loving name.