I stand in front of a grave,

with a flower in my hand

a wooden cross standing

on top of a heap of sand

engraved on the cross,

is a name

I say I don’t know him

but he’s my grandpa my

Dad always claims

I have never seen,

my so-called granddad.

When I look at his photo

ask my dad; what was he like?

“He was a kind fellow, a good lad.”

I ask my dad, “how did he die?”

“From cancer. He couldn’t be saved”

The thought still haunts me,

looking down at this unknown grave.