I thought dad’s arm only cared for one thing –
downing Broon, sinking pints of Exhibition,
repetitive strains from lifting loopy juice
that weighed us down, again and again.
Mam had enough, arms folded, all fed up,
bags packed at station, ready to split.
A giant pointed down at five-year-old me,
asked a weighty question – who will you live with?
Choosing her warm blanket arms, we fled Toon,
escaped dad’s flailing limbs, staggering antics –
being so mortal, he tried to sell his body
to science to fund that heavyweight habit.
With anger in my arms, trauma grew into rage,
too often lashed out – and never backed down,
when he showed up where I worked, half-cut –
my fists had to be dragged from the weight of his brow.
Mam spotted his softened arms on T.V
being interviewed in a halfway house,
they met, rekindled souls – he got sober,
my guts were lead weights when they remade their vows.
I thought dad’s arm only cared for one thing
but he holds my son snug like quilts in a cot,
though never shouldered role of a father figure,
to know him as my friend – is a weight taken off.