Father Christmas

The little ones didn't know it was you.

You were on your way to be, as usual,

Santa to the crippled kids.

You'd been a crippled kid yourself,

and I guess those kids must have liked

a Santa with a limp. As for us,

we never even noticed. You don't notice

what you've grown up with, never any different.

You decided to come by our house

dressed up, a treat for the little ones.

I was big enough to know, and I knew

I must not tell. But I was nearly bursting,

jumping up and down, clinging to your arm.

'Oh Daddy!' I whispered through my grin.

'Daddy Christmas!' Mr Lightfoot next door said

very quickly, then whirled you away in his jeep.

The Lightfoots' new puppy ran after it, barking,

but my little brother and his best friend,

Roger Lightfoot, grabbed him. My mother

gave the puppy a biscuit. His name was Bingo.

He was black and tan. Then she gave us all

a biscuit — shortbreads out of the big red tin

she kept in the kitchen. She had on her new

teal coloured jumper over her pleated skirt.

I thought my Mum was prettier

than a film star. You thought so too.

Sometimes she sat on your lap

and you kissed her and sang:

'I'm half crazy, all for the love of you,'

and both of you laughed. But that day

was the last time I ever remember

all of us being so happy.

I suppose we had a good Christmas

two days later, but I don't remember.

I remember that day, and my little brother's face

shining. Father Christmas came to his house

and talked to him! I was mostly unable

to speak, my breath coming huge and fast.

I remember how red your costume was.

I remember you driving away.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Fathers. Based on an exercise in Wingbeats: Rube Goldberg Poems, by Oliver de la Paz.