My daddy was killed whilst on active service

In Ireland

By the IRA.

Or so I thought.

When I was five.

Because I’d never met him, or heard mention


And every one else had a dad

Except me, so he had to be dead

And a hero. I thought

But actually

He lived up the road

With his other kids

And when I finally met him

I was fourteen years old

He was definitely alive

And not much of a hero.

But had a ponytail

And a cheap sports car

And a young girl friend

Who had tried to be a model

And who got me pissed on

Margaritas for my 15th birthday

Though it wasn’t glamorous

When I spewed down my school

Uniform on the way home

And my mum

Clipped me round the head and told me to stop acting like a slag

And when I was seventeen and a bridesmaid at his last wedding

He said

‘You want me to fuck your friend so you can find out what it’s like’

And he used to tell me how he loved to cuddle after sex

And he asked if he could watch me kiss another girl.

Because he has the gift

And can see ghosts

And they tell him the secrets

Of the universe

And once he did an excorcism

Releasing the bad spirit into an oak tree

He says his spirit guide is a red Indian

Who gives him his poetry

And that everything I am

Is because of Him.