I’ve never wanted to be a human
who is known for one thing.
When I am asked
about things I enjoy or am proud of
I feel a hand tightening around my throat.
I don’t know whose it is
but it looks a little like mine or the man who said
No one remembers the seventh goal in a 12-0 win.
But as I hold my son up to see the microwave,
his wrists spinning like a Labrador’s tail flapping,
I think about dying in a comfy chair
safe in the knowledge he’ll know
the songs, the stories, the flowers, the people
to watch me melt away,
allowing him the freedom to focus on
letting grief turn into moving on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021