Parents

Mother

I wrote you a poem

For Mother’s Day, 2006.

I made things up for you

I thought you’d like to hear them.

Gentle

Kind

I called you.

Printed out in purple

Your favourite colour.

Tape to bind to construction paper

A glue stick would be lumpy.

I took a stamp from your scrapbook kit

Cut away the paper corners

A flower, an overlay

Pretty fancy for a nine year-old.

But I made a spelling mistake.

You corrected it in red

And put your gift aside.

Father

So that’s it then?

First your mother and now me

We make mistakes

And you don’t have any grace

For us.

We say the wrong things

For years

(We mean well, don’t nag)

We can’t even learn your name

And when you run short on patience

It’s your fault.

You should be kinder to your parents

You only have two

Now one

You cut her off

Is it my turn?

No, I say

It’s not the same.

When you die I’ll probably go to your funeral.

Isn’t that grace?