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
Ever
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.
Heidi James 