11:35pm 28th April 2019

I love when he takes my hand.
It saddens me too.

Sat on the sofa,
our legs spread like starfish
watching Victoria.
Not royalists, but we love period dramas.

He may comment on the fish tank,
the lunar,
the clam,
the shrimp,
as though they’re the school project he never had,
or us lot who he missed out raising.

His breathing deepens
as heavy as the weight of the Antartic ocean.
I am squashed,

Gravity, ripped from my heart
is in his breath,
one in,
one out,
like clockwork.

He’s still here.

I’m still dizzy in dread.
My heart floats above my head,
above the ozone.
Now I look down at oceans,
The shores
pull out,
pour in,
like ticktock.

Atoms vibrate
till my heart spontaneously combusts.
Each relic
has something of him: his whistling nose (he has a cold), teasing nature, laughter, bravery, his deeply etched face of smile lines, how he always calls me, “My Love”, gives three kisses on each hello and goodbye, the way he dances, his manners, un-imposing nature, humility and still, still, STILL I see his happiness. His positivity.

All these, his fingerprints.

I learn that he, my dear daddy, labelled uneducated and unfiltered is full of grace.

For the first time, I see he is graceful.

He has no idea.

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