Although I know her best <br />& it’s me she trusts <br /> <br />The manager insists it’s he <br />who’ll tell her <br /> <br />her Dad <br />is dead. <br /> <br />He eager to show off <br />his prowess <br /> <br />in the newly acquired <br />Sign language. <br /> <br />His hands <br />shape the sound <br /> <br />she cannot hear <br /> <br />searching the empty air <br />for the meaning <br /> <br />hidden there <br />Death torn out of the sky. <br /> <br />She goes berserk <br />not because he’s conveyed the news <br /> <br />but because <br />of his inept fingers <br /> <br />the bang bang mime of dead <br />morphs mistakenly into the sign <br />for our four legged friend. <br /> <br />“My Dad is a dog? ” <br />her fingers tear the air apart in fury. <br /> <br />The ugly signs <br />dropping to the ground <br /> <br />in a big silent klunk. <br /> <br />I tell her quickly <br />what she needs to know <br /> <br />& now <br />she wishes back <br /> <br />the supposed <br />insult. <br /> <br />His death still hanging there <br />as if sculpted there. <br /> <br />A rainstorm breaks <br />as if trying to wash it away. <br /> <br />I take her <br />in my arms <br /> <br />and she cries <br />his death <br /> <br />into me. <br /> <br /> <br />All these years later <br />her tears <br /> <br />still nailing me <br />to her agony.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/your-dad-is-for-debbie/
