My grandma is a tin of leek and potato soup.
I would buy one every week when I lived
in Bournemouth – typically on the days
the seaside made Swindon feel further
than the moon, or I was hungover –
because I was never confident enough
to peel potatoes and simmer leeks
in my university hall’s kitchen. I would
heat the green comfort with a microwave
and eat it in my bedroom with a can of lager.
Grandma never saw me drink; I was
just young enough to need a pair of hands
to help me put a plaster on when she died,
years before soup tins had ring pulls. I imagine
the click of the metal opening is grandma
tutting for not making my own.

© Carl Burkitt 2023