Psalm for My Father

What can be said beyond that you
at least were always there,
and worked to keep the house in place
when it became nowhere.

I’ll call you dad until I’m dead,
which counts a lot, I think.
I’ve not been kind, but I’ll say this:
that “dad” was more than ink.

A name on some certificate,
like “Clacton Hospital”
and “mum”. That doesn’t mean much now
if it meant much at all.

I held your hand and told you that
you helped me stay alive,
and even if I lied a touch
I did it out of love.

The selfish, broken, cartoon boy,
so filled with outsized rage,
manoeuvred back to dad’s bedside
and helped him off the stage.