Broken Roses

Daddy'd come home with roses almost every day.

“I love you, Honey,” he’d always say.

Onto Momma’s lips, then, he’d plant a kiss,

share with her his day, how she was missed.

Daddy was always so nice, kissing and sweet- talking her;

Momma said I was lucky to have such a father.

Daddy believed roses were the blossom of his love.

“Your Momma should be kept happy;

she’s a gift bestowed from above.”

One wrong word-- he’d apologize for hours

and next day bring home a dozen extra flowers.

And they were always the prettiest kind

from some expensive place,

always going in our most splendid vase.

Eventually, wrong words increased, flowers became so few.

Arguments would start and sometimes last an hour or two.

And then, they’d always fight, always yell—

telling each other to go to Hell.

Sadly, one night Daddy got so mad—

filled with so much rage—

that he let all of his anger out of the cage.

His fist was like a hammer against her face;

his love for her had been misplaced.

He bought Momma roses the very next day.

“I’m so sorry, my angel,” I heard him say.

“I’ll never do it again; I promise you that.”

But my Daddy was a lying rat.

Each time he hit her it would always be worse.

“Oh, I fell again,” Momma would tell the nurse.

Daddy loved Momma—he told me he did.

And that I wouldn’t understand

because I was just a kid.

And I couldn’t comprehend

why I saw not another rose

or why Daddy always gave Momma

another bloody nose.

Now the only roses I see

are the ones on Momma’s grave.

Daddy got too mad one night

and her life couldn’t be saved.