Poem — Fiona Roberton

Dad When I go to visit him at 4:30 on a Friday he thinks Sunday and looks into my eyes as if I might know. I don’t. I don’t even know when his dinner time is. We occupy different worlds now, one reaching for something while the other stopped some time ago. I’m not even sure where his smart trousers are. I’ll ask Mum to bring them in, when she comes with a lighter step. If we were with him at the time how was he taken from us? And if he’s gone now will we ever see him again?

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