The note in the wallet

appeared the day after my mother died
my father confiding in me
I was suppose to go first.
Offering proof
he opened the spooned billfold,
butted by twenty years
against his bony body,
a scalloped, foxed, fold of paper
tottered out
a love note
something he expected my mother to find
after he died.
Shelved between
his driver’s license and Medicare card
he read the note to himself,
shaking his head,
not showing me the contents
repeating I was suppose to go first.
After he died
I found his wallet in a drawer
the note lost to mind.