Death to the Blueberry

Perennial, native to North America.
Bell-shaped flowers, white or pale pink.
You come into your own when its hottest --
May to August -- each dark purple berry
Wearing a flared crown.

My father knew you each by name.
Sang to you before the sun rose,
As any other father might sing
to his children before bed.

He loved you best.
Loved the symmetry of your rows, the
Explosion of purple-black flavor on his tongue, your
Satin casings inbetween his teeth.

I buy a quart of your kin each time I go to the store.
Reflex.

I do not eat you, but not out of
Mercy.

Instead, I let you rot, first
Bulging, then bursting, then
Sliming and finally folding into yourself;

Just like the flesh of my
Heart when he left us.