Dad is holding my hand
tighter than I’m holding my ice cream.
He cries at the strangest things:
walking to school like we’ve done a hundred times,
me singing a Stormzy song,
watching me brush my own teeth,
the way I use basic manners with strangers,
the smell of pancakes on my birthday morning.
I counted the white hairs in his beard
this morning, but I got bored at 35.
They look like the snowflakes on the day
he taught me how to use a sledge.

Carl Burkitt 2025