My grandfather isn't doing very well right now, and it's hit harder than I expected it to. This poem isn't working out; I wanted to convey exactly how much I love him, appreciate him, and don't want to do without him to give him a little incentive to hang on just a bit longer. Any help is appreciated.



For Papa



The postal workers know you by name,

And the seat-stealers at church cringe at the sight of you.



But your granddaughters know you as the man:

Who has to have his bib,

Who would tell the Pope what to do,

Who raised three wonderful fathers.



You’re the man:

Who can’t pick a lane,

Who still has a mouth like the railroad man you are,

Who gives selflessly,

Who understands that the best things in life are like a broken drum.



You’re the only seventy-nine year old who can 

speed

From zero to sixty 

In under four seconds.



You’re the man who can’t stay on the same topic for too long,

Because there’s so much to hear, say, and see

And you don’t want to miss an instant.



You’re the man who sees everything as 

Beautiful

Because you’ve lived long enough to understand

How precious life truly is.



You always have to ask,

“How’s your mama and them?”

And it never fails to elicit giggles from the backseat,

Nor odd looks from befuddled passersby.



You’re the encyclopedia of worthless information,

The great spoiler of grandchildren,

The best friend of wide-eyed little girls,

The man who plays “Mother May I” like no other.



And I am grateful for this gift,

This blessing,

This one special life:

Papa.