I bang my head in the loft on Sundays.
Our Christmas decorations live neatly behind me
as I enter the roof hatch for emergency access,
but the rest of the space is organised chaos.
My thumbs are too wide to be trusted
to send emails from a phone.
I have grown to love the dappled snowflakes
of pigmentless skin sprinkled across my arms.
I call my son Buddy.
My shoulders don’t feel strong enough sometimes.
I’m still waiting for my thigh-thick wrists,
roast beef hands and eyes
that both fall asleep mid-conversation
and make people feel heard with one look.
I do call inanimate objects Bastards, though,
when they dare to scratch my skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020