Poppet
  
When they turn you over
to remove your sodden nappy
you coil into a foetal skeleton
moan and grasp my hand,
a drowning man.

I stroke your cheeks, whisper you sweet nothings
conjure you into a loving father with my breath.
I sing you broken bits of nursery rhyme
– dare to call you Daddykins.


Hélène Demetriades

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Hélène Demetriades   would be pleased to hear them.