Don’t give me a fruitcake for Christmas

© Glenn Dromgoole

Don’t give me a fruitcake for Christmas this fall.

The last one you gave me I couldn’t eat at all.

What are those green things and blue things and red?

Are they still alive, or dormant, or dead?

I knew I couldn’t eat it, right from the start,

because of my liver — or kidney, or heart.

I didn’t want to be seen as a jerk,

so I just boxed it up and took it to work.

No one would touch it and by the end of the day,

not even the ants would take it away.

I offered slices to my former best friends.

They haven’t spoken a word to me since.

I fed it to the dogs and they turned up their noses

and busted the fence and trampled the roses.

I put it outside when they made such a fuss,

and I wasn’t surprised when it started to rust.

I tried it as a prop to hold open the door.

It left a gooey spot on the hallway floor.

I put it on the end of a ten-foot pole,

and dropped it to the bottom of a ten-foot hole…

And poured in gasoline and threw in a torch.

But the next day there it was, right back on my porch.

I finally gave it to my Aunt Ida Mary.

(You probably noticed her obituary.)

We buried it with her… and three days later –

it showed up again in my refrigerator.

And there it has stayed for the rest of the year,

gobbling my pickles and guzzling my beer…

Inhaling the whipped cream and butterscotch custard,

the blackberry jelly and a new jar of mustard.

I’m stuck with it now, for worse, not for better.

That’s why I’m transcribing this urgent letter.

I beg you: Don’t give me a fruitcake this season.

I’ll refuse to accept it. I don’t need a reason.

Glenn Dromgoole is a Texas author who likes most foods, except for fruitcake, mincemeat pie, beets and prunes. He’s not all that fond of apricots either.


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