Tags
anger, classic editor, death, father, lockdown, NaPoWriMo, poem in a white ribbed vest, triangle sandwiches, tuna, wordpress update
I cry every time I make
a tuna sandwich
because you made the best ones, dad.
I cut them into triangles
as you never failed to do,
having learnt, in a dorset rectory,
at the age of five,
that it was more genteel.
a servant’s fatherless child,
a stranger to niceties, normally,
you absorbed this one peccadillo,
this slight pretension to grandeur,
though the sandwiches there
were never meant for you.
I still cut mine into triangles,
dad, in honour of you.
NB This is a new poem about my Dad for napowrimo this year, because he died last year during lockdown one.
poem in a white ribbed vest 