Dear Grandfather, I wish I had
a time machine, so that I could send
this letter to places where postmen
fear to tread, through rifts in time
and space. Through the rabbit hole.

How do I put it into words, the pain
you have caused, how your actions
reaped consequences long after
you had stopped living, long
after you were sick and no longer
a holy terror, hell on tireless wheels?

He watched you, Grandfather.
You beat him and he watched you
and he learned. So when I looked
into his eyes and they hated me,
they were never his but yours.
I was just a child and so I loved you,
while loathing him, because I didn't know.

You are gone now and your legend
makes its way into the future. Your
youngest son recalls with pride
how you were in jail the night
he was born. For starting a race riot
in Detroit. For letting hate roll out
in front of you like a red carpet,
like a ribbon made of blood.

I'm asking you to set things right,
to keep your fists from falling,
to keep my father from hating,
to think of all of those
who will suffer your anger.
Your half-dead granddaughters,
your beaten-down sons.

12/14/2003

Author's Note: About my father's father. His name was Kyle, and that's my middle name. He died when I was 8. We were very close. He liked me because I was smart. You're never really smart enough to know the things that you should.

Posted on 12/15/2003
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