I only recall meeting my father's dad once when I was five but Mom talked about 'Pappy' a lot.

Pappy, a Frenchman, trapped game in the hills of Kentucky.
Wed five times . . . the man wasn’t lucky;
one died giving birth,
the others got sick. He’d simply pick
a lonely woman.
A medicine woman, my grandma,
was a Cherokee Indian girl;
died when Dad was two.
Her ‘gift’ his dread . . . his skin being red . . .
Pap beat in his head.
Pappy’s belt left red welts everywhere.
Step-moms, take a number, didn’t care.
Shared whipping the kids
until their blood ran bright, scarlet red--
flesh stuck to the bed.
Pappy, a trader, a trapper wild,
didn’t know how to raise his own child . . .
favored animals.
Didn’t care a lick when Dad was sick;
black heart . . . didn’t tick