In last month’s edition of Be My Parent

you share a page with three mixed - race children  

in the kind of online advertisement

 

that flashes me foresight of your future -

seeking out solace from any quarter.

They’ve tried to efface nature with nurture

 

and mask the more unfortunate features

of Foetal Alcohol Disorder,

massaging a report from your teacher

 

it’s true, she can be hard to understand

due to delayed language and speaking,

but she makes herself heard as my wife’s hand

 

draws the brush through your hair unlinking

all the tangles and knots while you’re screaming

blue murder. Your mother’s heavy drinking

 

has made you wince at a whisper of pain,

you’re not wavy and blonde like your sister.

Soon the Social Worker arrives to explain

 

about the forthcoming separation;

but you’re not a very good listener

and she’s so hopeless at close relations,

 

just combs the land for a space you’ll be parked in.

Nobody checks in the mirror these days

except my wife who’s perfecting your parting

 

and I who can see you haven’t a prayer,

so pretend it’s a spoof  like when you raise

the roof and we threaten to cut your hair.