Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
The words squeeze their way
through the cracks in two doorways.
Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
I feel the creek of my hip wake up.
Daddy. Dad. Daddy.
I see hands at the ends of my wrists;
a new, familiar shape of freckled shovels.
Dad. Dad. Daddy.
Patches of my head sit between hairs;
the gaps as soft as soil for problems
to grow underneath like potatoes
I’m learning how to pick and peel.
Dad. Dad. Dad.

© Carl Burkitt 2022