My grandfather distinguished himself,
On the field of honour
As a Canadian soldier
During Holland’s liberation.
On the fields of Holland,
My grandfather was a hero.
But the hero came home.
And then he was a hero,
In no more than name,
In fact he was a villain,
Bringing medals to shame,
For heroes and villains
Can be one and the same.
Yes the hero came home,
And revealed something other,
For six years of her childhood,
He raped my poor mother,
Until he was caught,
And finally imprisoned,
Leaving lives torn,
Family full of divisions.
An act can be heroic,
Yes I know that it can,
But to see a real hero,
First show me the whole man.

(I don’t usually write after prompts, but I couldn’t resist “Military, Soldiers, and Veterans” from Jingle poetry.)