For my Dad

Sixty something years

Of living fast, get olden,

Used to sing me Sinatra

Just to watch me throw a strop

Never seen you shed no tears

But hell, you must have had some

And when I think of whys and whats

My tears won’t stop.

And you used to talk to god

Down the big white telephone

Sipping back the golden

Dregs

Of poison homebrew after dawn

Growing poppies in the garden

Watching buds rise up from sleep

With the spinach

And the gooseberries

In your scrap metal heap

When you left, you left her crying

(Well, she weren’t the only one

Who believed you’d make her happy; no, of

Many, she was one)

And the garden started dying

Taken over by the thorns

And my mom was disappearing

Eating nothing but remorse

Did you tell her that you loved her

When you fucked my best friend’s mom?

Cos if words like that come easy

Then I never heard them once

Did I tell you ‘Dad, I love you’?

No, the words were trapped inside

With the caustic taste of single malt

And blame and shame and pride

And if I said a word again, ‘twas likely ‘It’s your fault’

As the train pulled into Piccadilly, something in me died.

You brought me piccalilli

And some dogs’ breath pickled stuff

With our eyes set at foot-level

Lining bottles on the shelf

And believe me it was tough

So we cracked a red one open

Drinking sorrows to our health

And the rest was left unspoken

If you don’t call me

And I don’t call you

Think of me in lima beans

You soaked for cholent stew

Is it no love lost

Or were we both unable

To get further than the zehug sauce

That’s always on the table?