I swallowed a pill the size of a thumbnail
and transformed into a child
in my son’s pre-school class.
He didn’t recognise me and just continued
his plan of crying for 20 minutes
while delicately hanging up his blue fleece
and on the peg with a picture of his face,
placing his green water bottle on his shelf,
tackling his two times table. I enjoyed
seeing his classroom. Red, green, blue fingerprints
of friends collected his tears and tact them
to the wall, Julia Donaldson books were
scattered on the floor like ideas waiting
to be gathered, a heart was trodden into
the carpet. I didn’t know whether to tell
my son that I was there, reach for his hand,
explain how I never want him to feel alone.
He looked through my eyes with the darkness
of a stranger, the death of a memory. He
picked up a toy police car and showed it
to his teacher.

Carl Burkitt 2023