Two-hundred and sixty-seven

[billy]

lots and lots to like here emily. in truth i like all of it. . i think some may say it's prose but for me it's a great poem. the overall image of sadness and trying to find meaning/identity etc is palpable. i don't have much by way of constructive feedback.
thanks for the read.

Two-hundred and sixty-seven
of his books remained.
They were useless to her. a suggestion would be to put [useless] in the line above after [his] and delete the rest of this line. the following line explains why and who they were useless to
She’d never care to know
about Structural Engineering for Bridges
and she’d never understand his math books,
even if they weren’t in Arabic.
She needed to know
how he removed stains,
cut grapefruit, made shwarma, love this line, i used to eat the stuff by the bucketful
how he felt about the war,
his marriage, and his American daughter.
She never had the courage to ask,
how have I disappointed you, would these 3 lines be better presented in it's own little stanza?
what do you wish you did differently--
marry an Arab, become a doctor?

Months earlier, as he laid in his deathbed,
she stood by him, seeking similarities
between their faces. Eyes, cheeks, smile.
Not enough for the nurses to know she’s his.
“You look more like your mom,” she’s told.
“I have my dad’s eyes,” she pleads,
pushing away the American.
She wants to reach out and touch him,
hug him, let him love her
like she refused as a child,
always preferring her mom instead.
She wants him to know her regret
for screaming I hate you when she was fifteen
and not listening when he explained
how planes flew or how to convert
Fahrenheit into Celsius.
She wants to yell apologies and love-notes
into his brain-dead ears until he wakes up,
wipes the sleep from his eyes,
and tells her it’s okay. We can go home now.