This is not the LOL festival the letter to Flop was. It’s an expression of the powerlessness and exasperation I feel in the face of UK immigration law which in this instance didn’t allow me to have my partner with me while my Dad was dying. That’s right, move over Flop, Theresa May has ruined my life.
Rows of beds of white people.
Fat white people.
Old white people.
Fat, old, white people.
In bed pissing themselves complaining about the service and reading newspapers about fucking immigrants.
Being taken care of by
Having incontinence pads changed by
And my (brown) baby is dragged around a hospital ward
Playing with the buttons
Sitting on the pissy bed
When she should be at home with her dad
So my arms could be free to help lift my dad,
Give him a hug then go home and be hugged.
I juggle the wriggling baby full of life
and the skeletal dad staring at death.
Life’s full spectrum in front of me and each extremity is incontinent and scared and crying,
Dribbling spoonfuls of pureed chicken from mouths to chins to chests.
I juggle needs, pees, tears, teas
Heart stopping fears.
I juggle and struggle down corridors into car
Through rush hour traffic to home to cook to eat (crisps)
Bathe and soothe my baby while 12 miles away
In a hospital ward in a concrete town,
In rubber gloves and a cheap plastic gown:
A woman named Beauty bathes and soothes my own Dad;
Mohammed makes his tea;
Simba preps morphine to help him sleep less fitfully.
I watch my milk-drunk baby slip into dreams
6,000 miles away from her Dad.
Three weeks later
I describe the sight
of siblings, friends and cousins carrying my Dad.
The twenty or so guests dancing round the coffin.
England’s full up!
There’s no more room!
My Dad’s a bucket of ash on a shelf
But he’s still closer to me
Than my daughter’s Dad is allowed to be.
Because this is the price he has to pay
For fucking emigrants.