Father
A bull of a man, tall
as a door is high,
muscles
heavy from working fork
and spade
his vegetable garden
set
row upon row of
potatoes,
cabbage, beets. Racist
by default
(fifties England
encouraged it)
homophobic (couldn't
understand)
and hold a grudge
longer than time.
I only saw him cry when
his wife died,
when his daughter
changed religion
when his son turned out
gay. He loved
the granddaughters he
wasn't allowed to see;
the dogs who shared his
life
and his bedtime tea;
greenhouse fuchsias,
Dad's Army and the
daughter who never left.
I remember his despair
when disease brought
him low;
when his eyesight faded
and his legs gave out.
I remember his laughter
when the cat
was sick over his best
friend; the whiskey in his tea,
the kisses he gave our
mother
and the eternal, never
discarded cigarette,
cupped in his palm to
shield the embers
from an unseen sniper
on the hill.
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