You were never around. The last time I saw you I was five years old. The last I ever heard from you was from the birthday card you mailed to me for my seventh birthday. All these years I've been wondering what you were doing, how Great Grandma is, how your dog is, how you are. For a few weeks I've been thinking I sending you a letter or something because you and dad haven't been on speaking terms for years. And then I found out. That you died. And I didn't cry, I mean, why would I? You were rarely ever there for me. You didn't die peacefully. No one deserves to die the way you did, but I guess I could say that karmas a bitch. You weren't the best dad, you over drank, you cheated, you hurt grandma, and you wouldn't even talk to your son for years, let alone your only grandchild.
They said you were sick and was throwing up blood. They said that the bathroom and bedroom was a mess. That there was blood and body fluids everywhere, your fucking insides exploded, you fucking suffered. No, even what you did didn't deserve a death like that. I just wish I could see you one last time, maybe even get to know you, but it's too late for that, isn't it?
