Dad, today I clipped

beautiful roses

from your garden.

Actually, it’s my garden

now that you’re gone,

but you left your fingerprints

in the soil

for me to remember you by.

The garden will never look

as nice as when you were alive.

You had a special knack

for making things grow.

I don’t plant seeds

in the ground

as you did,

but I do plant seeds

in people’s hearts

with the words I write.

I hope that after I’m gone,

my poems and stories

will leave my fingerprints

on those I leave behind.