Funeral Games

She was talking to the photos on her wall,
Her voice half New York drawl, half secondhand smoke
And she acted like I wasn't there at all
Or never existed, like the photos to which she spoke—
My grandfather—no. He was never
My grandfather and never will be, especially
After he yelled at her for what seemed like forever,
Not understanding, not loving her unconditionally.
And my extended family? They never cared.
They never will. All they ever wanted, in truth,
Was her money, and even that is spare.
But if it's truly there to soothe
Their aching minds, then take it and wash this entire fiasco away—
The funeral games have begun
Before she was even dead, before she could say
Whose was whose and who got none.
All I know is that the funeral games have begun,
And from here on out, we add the fun.