Poetry Problems

Last week, I got up in the night to write a poem.  This in itself is not unusual because writing poems in the night is pretty common for me.  (Also common: the shower.  Why I cannot write poems when I have nothing else to do and am already sitting at my computer I don't know.  It always has to happen when I am busy.)
I realized a sentence in that this poem was meant for someone.  Actually two someones, but one of them is dead, so really, there's only one someone I can give the poem to.
I don't give people poems.  I realize that was Emily Dickinson's big thing, but I never have found myself thinking "I should give this poem to him/her."
Which is not to say I don't write poems about hims and hers, I most certainly do.  But they are almost never nice poems, and even when most readers would call them "nice" there is usually something less than kind lurking there in the text.  I have love poems that imply all sorts of nasty things, although mostly people read them and go "Wow.  That's gorgeous."  No one ever asks me if that last line is meant to imply that some is a coward or a liar or a jerk.  No, no one ever asks me that. 
I am in a pickle with this poem.  I'm going to give it to him, but only if I think he'll interpret it as good.  It's not actually a love poem, but a poem about something he's been involved with for awhile.
The problem is I have mixed feelings about this something but I'm not sure if the poem is doing that.  On one hand, he could see the poem as a tribute, one that puts his something in line with some very brave, loyal, admirable sort of work.  Or he could see it as a condemnation, a critique, even a depiction of posturing.  The worse bit of all of this is I'm not even sure what it is.  I still can't figure my feelings out at the moment, which was the point of writing the poem. 
Maybe to be on the safe side I shouldn't give it to him? 
It's times like these I wish I wrote modern-updates-of-romantic-dribble in the style of Mary Oliver.  Something on nature, something without a sliver of criticism or darkness, something bland enough to be difficult to hate.  Unless you are me and bored to tears with another ode to sunshine and wish someone would be more interesting and critical in their writing.