if I were a good daughter,
maybe I could’ve told my father
he was Dearer than eyesight,

as Goneril did. If I obeyed
the fifth commandment, I thought
that would be enough. For his ears

my tongue should have sung
Daddy, you are the best father in the world,
words my sister Robin wrote on the wallet-

sized photograph Dad kept in his desk.
Perhaps she pressed her cheek into his hand
as she gave him her picture, sealing his eyes

with her hot touch of affection.
Had I smelled a fault? After she took
his house, all the good jewelry, my arms carried

home the cardboard box of jumbled
things – torn towels that once wiped rain
off Dad’s face, a gold watch that pinched

his wrist, and a cell phone now
mute to my message: Have you nothing
to say? Nothing from his blue lips.