my dad used to tell me about love
not to rush into it
to take your time
"be sure before you jump into it, son"

three years later
i see he wasn't just a hater
he speaks wise words
i should listen more often

i should do a lot of things
i shouldn't cling
i shouldn't cry
should i?
i should.

but i can't.

He walked to the gate while the soft summer wind stirred the oak,
and the sun reflectively smiled in the ruts on the road,
to greet his brother Ted who’d languidly move across
so that Vic could companionably lean and look at their cattle
grazing under the Breckland pine, and reflect.

He drove his tractor and tended his fields,
enjoying the changing seasons but moaned about fen blows,
and unexpected showers which slowed the combine,
good naturedly grumbling with other farmers
about the price of fat cattle, the return on wheat,
and how many potatoes are in a packet of crisps,
when at Bury market on a Wednesday.

He’d sit to the left of the door of the Cricket Club
contentedly watching Lakenheath bat,
and readily smiled when they’d hit a six,
bringing his big brown hands together
to join in the ripple of applause.

He’d bring his prince of a Yorkshire to where
his grandchildren drooled ready for turkey
with all the trimmings, and fresh vegetables,
hearing the microwave hum, cooking the pudding
whose brandy sauce bit, before heading the evening games,
candidly laying a domino, announcing to all concerned
"Another fifteen."

He’d talk about the little black pony he drove as a youth
over top Maiden Cross Hill to Brandon,
with a cart full of produce, hating the finicky woman
who always made him eager for home.

He hoed his little bit of garden, and happily cut a lettuce for his tea,
another to pop round a neighbours' with a hand full of beans,
and a third to lay with the sack of spuds waiting for his children.

He watched the Weakest Link, and commented
on the stupidity of students, and foolish woman
wishing to spend a thousand on a handbag, and reckoned that:

“If there were more men like brother George,
who was straight and true, the world would be a better place.”

He laid in bed in the moonlight, listening
to golden oldies of yesteryear, and Victor Palmer,
the father of five, my dear Father, a gentle giant of a man,
a man of the soil, dreamed of his garden…

my dad didn’t walk out
he just stopped showing up
and called it love.

“i don’t think he meant to hurt you”
my mom says one night over cold takeout
her voice tired like she’s run this loop before

she has.

“you know how he is”
she says it like it’s supposed to make sense
like that kind of sentence has ever held me

i don’t want to argue with her
not her
she was there when he wasn’t
she held the pieces he never saw break
but still
she tries to excuse the man.

“he worked a lot” she adds
“things were complicated”

and i want to scream
i was a child. not a complication.

she picks at her food
like maybe she can find the right words
buried somewhere between the grains of rice

i let the silence stretch long
almost cruel
trying to read her face to my best ability.
working my eyes around her stress riddled face.

“i know you’re trying to defend him”
i say eventually
“but i don’t think he ever tried for me”

she winces
but she doesn’t deny it

that’s the closest thing to validation i’ll ever get.

he used to know how to smile
used to know how to carry me
until i got too big
or he got too small in other ways

we didn’t stop talking all at once
it was a slow erosion
like sand slipping under me.
one day i looked behind me and realized
he wasn’t holding my hand anymore.

he argued more than he listened
corrected more than he cared
and when i tried to reach out
he treated me like a stranger
accusing him of something unprovable

i learned who he really was in whispers
affairs
lies
his actions and inactions

and suddenly every cold moment made sense

he is trying now
a little.
half thought texts
casual invitations

like we’re peers who lost touch
not a father and daughter
with history caked in dust and silence

but i’m older now
the door i waited at for years
has rotted off its hinges
and i’ve turned my back to it.

i no longer sit at the threshold hoping he will return.

i don’t want what he’s offering
now that it’s easy to give.

i don’t want to sit across from him
pretending there was never an absence.

i don’t want to teach him
how to be what he was supposed to be
before i knew how to speak.

i say i don’t have a father
and when people ask..
i don’t explain

because i’m done explaining.
done hoping.
done shaping myself into someone
he might finally pick.

i paint a portrait of him anyway
it’s not beautiful
but it’s honest..

i sign only my name in the corner
he didn’t earn the right to be credited

sometimes i still dream of him
of who he could have been
of the version that showed up

and when i wake, i’m disgusted
by the small girl who still hasn’t learned
her dad changed some time ago.

even in my dreams
he’s already walking away

so i stopped calling
stopped chasing

dad is not his name.
not anymore.

and i am not his to claim.

the beast within
a ticking time bomb
never know when what you do is wrong

run and hide
close the blinds
the monster is out from under the bed

“look what you did”
“it’s all your fault”
it really wasn’t but that’s fine

i said i was sorry
“sorry doesn’t fix it”
“your apology was arrogant”
here we go again

the beast is out of its cage
someone else forgot to feed it
but the target is always me

doesn’t matter what you say
what you do
or try to prove

the beast is hungry
the monster is angry
the beast is scary
the monster is crashing
the beast is dad
the monster is him
it’s better when both are silent and hidden within

When Dad got Leukemia, he put up a fight.
He took chemo but lost his battle 12 years ago tonight.
After months of taking chemotherapy, he died.
He couldn't beat cancer even though he tried.
He died less than two hours before the fourteenth of July.
He was a good provider and that's something I can't deny.
When a person loses a parent, it's always sad.
Twelve years ago, I had to say goodbye to Dad.

Once he’d adored her,
‘daddy’s little girl’
he had said
while he swung her around
then she perched on his shoulders.
He’d tell everybody
about his angel.

Until she hit thirteen,
the devil she became.
His grip tightened,
knuckles now white
‘Just like your mother’
‘Don’t you dare talk back’
He’d taught her how to flinch

Shown her
the cost of silence.
and whilst
Mothers forgive,
Wives excuse,
daughters remember-
because he always remembered

He raised a daddy’s girl
who won’t bow now
a girl unfettered she became
whilst he, fettered by his past
mistook fear for power
but now that’s gone
and so is he

he left
he left with not a choice
but mere force
my father
the man I loved the most
was taken in front of my eyes without a choice
I will never understand why
why must there be penalty if not porcelain skin and perfect
my oh my he never had that choice
how I wish we meet again
I hope we have that choice
my darling father
you were taken by a country who never understood you
oh my dear father
I wish us both a choice
a chance for father and daughter
to reunite

a glimmer to a glow
then only embers
to remind us
of a fire that once
raged

a thousand extras
for a cast of one
and I among them

world shrunk to four walls
an armchair and tv set
have you seen mum
seven years gone
waiting