Dad

Today’s little poem is the reason that I chose raise money for Dementia UK. The truth is, it’s a horrible condition – for both the sufferer, and for those who care for, and about, them. If you can, click on the Justgiving link above, and make a donation.

Dad – by Fiona Dorchester

 

I’d watch him sloop Swarfega

from the tub under the sink

then lather, rinse, repeat;

scrub pithead slurry

from under his nails

until crescent-moon slivers appeared.

 

Later, in the comfort of his favourite chair,

me perched on the arm,

he’d flick school-sock fluff

from between my toes

and chase teddy-bear tickles

till bedtime.

 

Today at the Passport Office

I stopped myself

from correcting his grip

as he painstakingly formed the letters

of his own name

in the box marked X.

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