Thursday, 4 December 2014
New poem: Ma
My grandmother left America on a boat for Liverpool
with 3 children she had had there. She left behind
the 2 children she’d had in London. People said
she didn’t say goodbye to them. They were hoeing
in a field, so she waved. One of them she never saw
again. No one knows how she said goodbye to their
father. People said that he told her he’d join her soon.
He never did. When she got back, one of the children
she brought with her, died. I remember her coming
to see us. My father called her ‘Ma’. No one round
our way called their mother, ‘Ma’.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said to me.
She put her hand in her bag. It was a shoe horn, made
of metal, painted red. In winter the red shoe horn