Straightening the Edges
My dad used to like a piece of cake.
He’d say I’ll just straighten that edge
and a second slice would follow the first.
Sad childhood days became happier
when he did his National Service,
staying with other soldiers’ families
rather than going home on leave.
He would earn himself “a few bob”
ironing uniforms and polishing boots.
He liked everything to be right.
He could look after himself. He had to.
His parents were only for themselves,
sitting in the pub with their friends,
too busy for his shirts or his boots
or to cook him a decent meal.
It was pie and mash down the market
or a fry-up in the café for him,
his face pale, his stomach crying.
Does your young man have heart trouble?
No, I don’t think so, my mum replied.
He continued to love them anyway,
using kindness and generosity of time
to straighten the edges they created
and they grew drunk on his caring ways.
With every slice of cake he would cut,
his heart would break a little bit more
until it just stopped…
Susan Wilson
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson would
like to hear them
