Poem - my dad's cancer diagnosis

I'm struggling with my dad's cancer diagnosis. I'm trying to find a way to keep it from getting in the way of my grief. This poem is my most recent word vomit. Thanks in advance for reading and providing feedback. <br><br>My dad died and my voice got stuck right here in my throat. Cancer took him and I just got stuck here, unable to express the depth of my love for the man whose eyes locked onto mine the day I was born and never let go.<br><br>I sang when I was young, sang at the top of my lungs. I sang every time I was happy, and I was happy a lot. My voice was a part of who I was, and my dad loved me for it.<br><br>I sang while I worked, while I drove, while I played with my daughter. I sang while my dad was dying, sang while he was dead, sang at his funeral.<br><br>My dad loved jazz, loved his saxophone, loved my voice. He said it was like butter, so smooth it would melt in your mouth.<br><br>I sang until my daughter died. She was ten. Then my voice just got stuck in my throat.<br><br>It's been six years since she was killed by a coke-addicted driver. My voice has been stuck here for too long to be smoothed out by my dad. I have struggled, hard, to get it back. It's been gone for so long, though. The memory of its smoothness is all that's left.<br><br>Now my dad is gone. I'm struggling to get my voice back, to show him how much I love him. My voice is stuck in my throat and cancer stole him from me.<br><br>I should have my voice back by now, for him, if no one else. I've made it six hard years without it, but I should have it back for him. If only I could get it back, I'd sing, and it would be butter again. I'd sing, and it would pour out from where it's all been stuck, wash over him, and smooth out his pain, make it melt away.<br><br>I should have my voice back for him, but I don't. It's still stuck in my throat. I sing anyway. It's rough, cracky, and raspy, but I sing anyway. I sing, and it washes over him, and he's good.<br><br>Good?<br><br>Better than good. Better than before he was sick. Better than before I lost my voice. Better than he ever was. My voice is back, and my dad is doing well.<br><br>It's not good.<br><br>I'm not good.<br><br>My dad is where he was always headed, cancer or not. He's not good. He's dead.<br><br>I'm not good, either. My voice is back, but it's not good. It's rough, cracky, and raspy. Not good at all.<br><br>It's good enough, though. It's not like butter, but it's enough.<br><br>---<br><br>Edit: I'm overwhelmed and grateful for the interest in this poem. I've received numerous requests for permission to share it. Please feel free to share it wherever you like, if you have someone in your life who might benefit from it.