Jun 7
3 min read
Poetry
I am The Grape Picker’s Daughter
Poetic memoir
Daddy lost his job, and we lost our home. We pack our belongings into our station wagon in the back alley. In the night’s quiet, we move across town into Grandma’s small back bedroom. It’s the summer my daddy lost the tip of his finger working at the old brickyard that is near the spooky graveyards.
