Although you chase me
up the stairs laughing
and tickle me as I hide
behind my door frightened,
your hand up my nightdress,
and you send me a Valentine
of a man baby holding a heart
over his genitals, and he’s blushing
and the card is saying,
IF YOU CAN’T BE GOOD
BE MINE,
and although you visit me years later,
and we’re admiring the roses
in Greenwich Park and the bees
on the flowers, and you’re saying,
Be careful, they’re going to pollinate you,
and in the back of the cab you tease me,
The driver will think I’m your beau,
(although excuse me, you’re 80),
you are my father.
Published in ‘The Plumb Line’ 2022
