Pop, What About The Computer We Bought You? Poem by Sandra Dodd

I married into knowing
the most adorable man
I would ever meet.
My husbands father.
Unassuming and humble.
A pastor for years,
then a gentleman farmer.

He grew almonds,
pronounced them amonds,
because he said when
they shook them from the trees
they knocked the L out of them!
That is the closest he ever came
to swearing.

Pop typed me a letter everyday on his
Swingline hunt and peck typewriter.
Sometimes he would just say hi,
others he would opine price of gas and bread,
talk of coming to visit when he could swing
a proper gift, include a newspaper clipping,
just tell me how much he loved me
being his only pretty daughter.

Everyday in our box was a love note
most distinguished country man had wrote
top of his class at Stanford School of Divinity
but never a word, sentiment, verse
did he mix to lord over your head or heart.
He fashioned the notes to keep our connection
the way it was done for centuries
Pop typed the letters for all of those he loved
sealed them with his spit,
left his inky thumbprint,
walked them to the postman,
who sometimes he prayed with.

On day with pride tucked in he called
he was quite distressed.
His typewriter ribbon,
he had bought in gross
years before, when they
were discontinued. It had ripped,
jammed his humble words up in his head.
I said thinking I was brilliant,
'Pop this may be the time for you
to use that computer we bought for you'
'Well that is a very nice gift. I use the
keyboard for organizing the business
cards of those I keep in touch with,
but for actual writing I need to find a ribbon.
I wondered if you could ferry me around.
Together we could find one? '.

One day we got a call said
no more letters would come at all.
He had passed alone in the hospital,
not wanting us to be a bothered.
When asked who they should call he said,
'No one at all, I already wrote them a letter.'

Just that afternoon one more letter came.
It said, 'Everything the same here.
Waiting for the spring to see the
blossoms on the trees, get to work
on making a great harvest. So love the time we
had on the holidays. Lets do it soon
again, laugh a few more ways
I will bring the children some
of my chocolate vitamins.
See you then, Love, David'.

Our tears flowed on the page at the words
that reached beyond the morgue.
He had one more time made me feel
like I was worth a printed gem,
typed, signed harvest of my heart,
sealed with a kiss, stamped with his thumb,
walked acres to the end of the farm,
or driven in the tractor
to be put in the postal box,
with care of a thousand men,
he gave me loving kind last words.

His typewriter sits on my livingroom shelf,
with a new ribbon that we found.