At four o’clock on Saturday, the sky was calm and bright,
The backyard buzzed with joy and love, hearts glowing with delight.
In Knoxville, Iowa, a family stood with cheer,
To celebrate a baby soon to grace their lives so near.
Pamela, aged fifty-six, with laughter in her eyes,
Stood filming in her son’s backyard beneath the autumn skies.
She worked upon a base nearby, but truth be told, her pride
Was being Mom and Grandma—her family was her guide.
Her son and his sweet, glowing wife, expecting joy anew,
Had gathered friends and relatives for pink dust—or for blue.
The moment came, the crowd stood back, anticipation high,
Pamela, with her phone held up, looked eager to the sky.
A tube stood in the center, prepped with powder sealed inside,
Homemade, it seemed so harmless—just a spark to show the guide.
“Are you all ready?” said her son, as all began to cheer,
And Pamela gave a thumbs-up, her joy was crystal clear.
He lit the fuse and stepped away, a second passed—no more,
Then thunder split the peaceful day with violence and roar.
No colored dust, no joyful cry, just panic, screams, and dread,
And Pamela collapsed in place, struck squarely in the head.
The tube, packed full with powder, was no party toy or game,
But like a pipe bomb wrapped in steel—a spark became a flame.
It blew apart with deadly force, sent metal flying far,
Through fence and home and open air, like missiles from a war.
The crowd was stunned, a silence fell, then chaos filled the scene,
Calls to 911 were made, where once the lawn was green.
Shards had flown four hundred feet, through wood and wall and pain,
But only one dear life was lost—it wasn’t just a game.
When help arrived, they found the yard was littered, torn, and scarred,
With Pamela still by the fence, her family left marred.
The law called it an accident, no charges would be laid,
But grief would linger long and deep for what that blast had made.
So let this tale be heard and known wherever joy may rise:
That danger dressed as celebration wears a bold disguise.
A moment meant for love and light turned into one of dread—
And now a Grandma’s loving heart lies silent, still, and dead.