The man who taught me to ride a bike,

(by pretending he was still holding on) is gone.

The man who taught me how to drive his car,

(even though I crashed it, and we didn’t get far) is gone.

This man fed the birds every day,

and made bread so right, but fudge you had to weigh.

His Yorkshire puddings were the best in the land,

made in big bread tins, always by hand.

(Not like mine which are always too small,

and which rise in the oven, only to fall).

That same man who was so down to earth,

listened to opera late on Christmas day,

lying flat out on his back after all was cleared away.

Resting by the radiator, head melting but content,

listening to Aida, happy but spent. He’s gone.

The man who bought me my first posh perfume. Miss Dior.

warmed beans in a tin in the woods, (and called it camping)

– we were home by four.

Who took me fishing in the North Sea off Brid,

and never complained when all I caught was a dead plaice,

having puked the whole time when the boat left the bay.

Who taught me to light coal fires and chop wood

and loved me as his own, tho’ I was not of his blood.

Who never let go, never stopped being my dad.

Being a dad to the lad he never had.

The one to whom he gave the middle name, Jane.

Who called me AJ, whose love never waned. He’s gone.

Gone but 25 long short years ago.

A generation past.

But he’s still alive. Inside.

So, while this may not look like poetry to some, it is

because my dad was poetry to me.