Kate

 

Kate

 

He wore a wig, Kate,

the chemo – it wasn’t a great look, to be fair,

a bit rat’s tail – being thrifty,

it had arrived in a brown envelope -

well, you knew your dad,

maybe better than me,

although, I wonder.

Always reckoned Iceland food was a neat idea,

like digital watches,

wrapped in plastic,

drank litres on litres of cheap bottled coke.

Were we talking? Then, I mean.

Somehow, something had come between us,

you, or Peter, maybe –

my poor behaviour, chucking a can

onto the hard shoulder of the A30

that time we’d gone to see a punk band in Exeter

John Peel had been raving about.

I was pissed. My turn.

Sometimes it was his, believe me.

Then, he told me six months.

Everything didn’t change, really,

he slipped away, I’m remembering games,

times we took you to the horses,

holidays in France, Les Conches, Molineux

and your mother kicking him out

because once you’ve had black –

her words, not mine.

I miss him but I see you’re doing fine,

Sky Sports, glamour time, off the shoulder

and flaunting tits all over the internet,

and I wonder

what he would’ve made of that?