If dad were an apple tree
he would be grand,
With gorgeous bark and fresh leaves.
But underneath, weak wood
infested with bugs.
A kind sight for sore eyes,
the eyes of outsiders.
You look just like him.
I hope no one tells me
I act like the grand apple tree.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
But you are a tree perched on a lonely hill.
I’ll break from your branches.
I hope you heal one day.
But I’ll roll far, far away
and grow my own tree.