"My first son is already a poet"

A few years ago I gave a copy of my first and last book to my dad.
At that time I hid my depression in an inadvisable amount of pills, various styles
and lots of beer

Basically the book talks about two great loves
He talks about dying and death, madricomio is a way of dying without having to

It also talks a lot about my relationship with him

He put on his glasses
I invite a round to all the parishioners
He put one foot on a chair and intoned the first line of the book (text, the immortals)
his voice cracked like a dry branch before he finished the first paragraph

Clearly I wasn't going to hug too much in front of so many men together and that's fine
Clearly my disappointment at my inability
to be able to tell him that
I just want your attention
and I don't know why I care so much, if in the end, it's mom who spends all night at the foot of the bed
in a hospital full of goodbyes and ghosts
and me writing odes without knowing what the hell an ode is
just for my father to fill his chest with air
because his son
by definition
managed to be a poet
and as if it were a big deal
if in the end there are no verses that calm me down
although I find it funny
that make you feel alive