John Heron Project

There’s this cliché about Welsh women
About how they’re really filthy when they talk about sex
And they have all these tattoos
And I can’t vouch for the first
But since the summer started
The layers have been shed
And at the gates of the Welsh school
The ink is there;
Butterflies on shoulders,
Dragonflies on ankles,
And here’s a fearsome black-haired nan
With a vast tangle of roses and hearts and birds
And the names of her grandchildren
Etched on her calf from ankle to knee,
And I feel sort of naked actually,
With only these half-dozen dots on my hand
Witness to a failed attempt at this
Home-made tribal framework, aged seventeen
That got all gungy and fell off.

All this ink,
All arrayed across the track
Fading in the sun
In honour of two dozen three- and four-year-olds
Wobbling plastic eggs on massive spoons
And clambering through tunnels
And running as fast as their little legs will carry them.
Here you are,
You I came to see
And Mrs J picks you up and drops you in the sack
And she tells you to jump.
And you will not jump.
You will not.
She holds your hand and tries to coax you
And you will not jump
And I am so proud.

Now I realise that the reason you’re not jumping is because
You hurt your foot a couple of days ago
And it hurts to jump
But I am your dad
And it’s my job to project upon you my own failures and desires.
I’m your dad.
I jumped when they told me,
But I never jumped high enough or far enough.
I wish I had not jumped.
I wish I hadn’t screwed up this tattoo.

Listen, when you’re old enough to appreciate it,
I’ll issue a finite number
Three maybe, or five,
Vouchers for sickies.
I’ll write you a note,
No strings, back you up,
Get out of Sports Day free,
If you like.

Obviously, we won’t tell your mother.

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 9th, 2009 at 11:02 pm and is filed under Fatherhood, Only Not Actually On Sunday, Sunday Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.