When my dad passed away,

I began to wish for

A number I could call,

To check he was all right.

 

‘All right’ is relative, of course,

But the purpose of this hot line

Would be to spread out and discuss,

To ask the unanswered questions,

To say the things we had not said,

 

And to speak to one that I knew,

Not the wizened, angry, lost soul

I had sat with that last weekend,

But Dad, taking us to London,

On trips he could barely afford,

To watch cricket, see the Tower,

And to fall asleep on the bus,

As we listened to his stories,

Resting on his kind, broad shoulder.