Platelets of time, clot.
Regret reawakens
the hibernating bleed.
Time never fully heals wounds,
rather it's a bandaid awaiting the rip off.
And oh how you loved ripping off!
Trading places and spaces with your debts
We were an extension
of your monetary system-
Disposable.
I suppose, nonetheless
an asset.
What do I regret?
Missed circumstance.
Idealised opportunities.
The supposed apparent normalities of every nuclear family
yet to be witnessed, like
dads 'playin' ball'.
Americanisation, yes perhaps-
It may have set some impossible standards.
One hand down,
You delivered low blows
I prayed for both hands down,
then I would have known
you surrendered and
we were even.
But you always preferred odd numbers.
Initial breath- 11th November 1945.
Every day with you was a day of remembrance.
I salute the fallen soldiers,
whilst fighting a battle to keep the memories
of our wars from proceeding beyond the front line.
Continually you shot me down.
Did I not possess enough ammunition against you?
Kill me, you could never!
Father you were unaware, I was born one thousand cats,
I am more than a winner sperm.
As I sit and watch your life waver before me,
like the words 'I love you dad' scampering,
then retreating like a puppy toward a mistaken owner-
yet in my throat.
It is not the 'L' word that can't identify you.
It's the words 'you' and 'dad'-
that do not correlate.
One hand up = you
Both hands down = dad
But we both know you were never fond of even numbers.
'I love you, you'.
Author notes
This is a poem I wrote when I was 18 about my father after witnessing him having a heart attack. He survived and has heart disease, so his days are numbered....like the rest of us I suppose.
I choose not to edit poems from my youth in fear that it may alter the moment in which the poem was penned. I am a sentimental and nostalgic bitch 
Comments
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Zahra
You are right not to amend -- it is quite heart-wrenching to read, even for someone with a leathery old heart like mine. I suppose others too will have been reminded of Phillip Larkin 'They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad'. But if only things were that simple!
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I am speechless... I have a similar relationships with certain family members... This does show an incredible maturity for being written a decade ago in the mad seethe of youth.
Well written, and thank you.
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Excellent work! You were very talented even then. This is a very emotive poem and seems (to me) a poem about the author's recognition of mortality. Bravo poet!
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Thanks John, you are too sweet!
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