Father
The gentle whir of the machine
pumps temporary relief into your veins.
It happens more than it did;
even yesterday.
You sigh.
The tight grip of your hand relaxes
I release mine and rub some life
into dead fingers.
You never held my hand before
when it mattered;
it was not what men and boys did;
you used to utter.
I lean over
and breathe gently
on your cold grey face
as I gently kiss your forehead;
another thing that boys don't do.
You whisper something
in your fevered sleep
words I wish I knew.
I murmur gently in your ear:
I love you, dad.
Your eyes open in pain.
The machine whirs again.
Your eyes close;
it's sad to think
that we are all sat waiting
for your last gasp.
'Writing Prompt - Breathe -' Contest Joint 1st place.
Published in the collection "It's Not Easy" by Poetry Choice
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