You must get in the habit of doing
And now
Because soon the scrawled, reluctant lists he wrote
Will lose their cogency and, without doing,
You will forget how to light the oven of his ancient stove
Or when to feed his parrot and what to do
When yellow blisters creep between its toes
And your first and oldest title, Beloved Daughter
Will never grace
The stone above your final resting place
Because no one will stand then to recall
How he touched your chubby baby face
Or how you asked him to write them down, every task
That would help him leave in peace
When fate follows proper order
Fathers die before their children
And because grief will not let us to call it grace
We call it mercy