In honor of Baba who recovered from cancer 

They’re here. 

I don’t mean the people we invited over for dinner, 

ready to teeth on homemade ravioli. 

I mean those calcified knots under the skin,

that eat what they want and go back for seconds. 

They weren’t invited, 

just showed up unannounced

to the home that is my grandpa, 

a prisoner that can’t escape his own malignancy.

Oh, right, it came dermis-up

intruding into a place it doesn’t belong,

the backs of elbows and hands, skin that should

be held, not IV-pocked and radiated.

Next time we have uninvited guests,

I won’t bother to make a second helping.