My grandfather taught me things.
Things I didn't have to learn because I saw someone hooked up to a hospital machine,
But the tiny things that mattered,
Like how you should never play with you fork,
Because you could poke your eye out,
And while we're on the manner of table manners,
His constant hand grabs,
Moving plates and glasses,
Farther and farther in,
For a fear they may fall,
I was so curious of why even now when I'm not as small.
For now I wonder,
Is it so you don't fall,
So you feel safer,
Is this why u always push re plates in,
Have your little problems with everything,
And not afraid to share them with the world,
And try to push them to be perfect,
When you haven't figured out no one is,
I know that you see things in me,
No one else does that I don't even see,
All the potential and this future you constantly go on and on about,
And I think to my self what future,
But you don't give an inch,
And tell me I'm worth something,
That means something to me,
They say you don't chose your family
But I would of chose you still,
Your still going to be old and stubborn,
Like the old folks are,
But your unique in your pushy way,
That wouldn't of honestly made me care about you as much,
If you weren't the way you were,
I love you times every plate you pushed in at dinner,
To ever time you told me to stop playing with my fork when I was eating,
And nothing will change that,
Like nothing should ever change you,
And like you've taught me,
Don't change for anyone but you,
And to push myself to go the distance,