On your birthday memories
flood back to me.
I struggle to say
words that won’t mar your day.

The things my mind sees:
Birthday dirges, roses,
Flat Stanley;
Breakfast “MOM!” poses.

A card and bag of cookies
seem small gifts of appreciation
to the great gifts you gave me:
Two daughters, three sons.

As those thoughts flood my memory,
I can only add this: I’m sorry.