Afternoons around the lake feeding the ducks,
throwing crusts from the bottom of a bag
that smells like home.
Scraping down a white wash hill
on a scarlet sledge,
fingers freezing in the spray.
Walking home from school with a lucky bag,
a smile
and a warm hand on my shoulder.
Watching football
with a belly for a bed,
shouting out whenever you did.
Clipping holly best I could
through a fist full of mitten,
from the special bush that we called ours.
Laughing at the funny men
arguing on the telly,
the ones with the bowler hat and the silly face.
Coming home crying
with a splinter in my foot,
saved by a steady hand, a kind word and a needle.
Finishing almost last
in the school fun run,
but still feeling like a winner hearing you cheer my name.
Being able to say
that you're my dad.