My Dad

A stream of consciousness

Photo by Limor Zellermayer on Unsplash

Dad, I want to sit on your lap
and rest my face in your neck
as I did as a child, every day
your skin smelt familiar to me
pipe smoke, aftershave, and perspiration,
home to me, when I was so ill
you carried me to bed, and from bed
to the sofa, where I spent the day
My Dad, 
my body hurts so much
my concerns are a bit too much

my sleep is broken, I need rest, much more

I started calling you ‘My Dad’
I cared for you so fiercely.
You deserved it and you showed me how

I watched you, and you never told me
Now I am weary as never before
managing a home with sprained ribs
that got bruised all over again

the pain wears my mind down, no relief
except in sleep which is broken
If only I could sit on your lap again
feel your warmth and strength

know your deep love for me, your dry humor
I miss you still so much, you were my north
my compass to find my way in life
I know you are proud of me, love me
I saw you weep for me two times
though you were a man of few words

but your actions spoke louder
you treated everyone the same

from royalty to road sweepers
people always spoke well of you
I want to sit on your lap, face in your neck
you died in my arms far too soon
I’m glad you had a good death
but I miss you and want you still

Published in The Lark

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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