My Father is dying — a poem

There’s a description pending,
Of how I’m feeling
Now that I know
My Father is dying.

Caught in the middle
Of reactive, trialling
From well-meaning,
Have-a-last-moment vying.

A life reduced
To days, hours.
Shall we sit, talk it out
Or comment on the flowers?

Should we clump together,
All childhood memory
Into a single conversation,
Or if we can stretch, three?

And all the while
I’m asked, how I feel.
Like it’s a cinema reel
With only one ending.

Do I say that I’m sad?
‘Then why don’t you just have a cry?’
Angry, relieved, indifferent?
‘That happens when someone dies.’

Eyes search my eyes,
For a mirrored emotion.
Hands twitch to be the one
To give me a miracle potion.

Or, shall I say, honestly
I feel a lot of things.
Plus the lots of things,
That you’re putting onto me.

Because my Father is dying,
And that’s pretty shitty.
He was a good man, sometimes
Who my son will miss, heavily.

So, I’ll give him a kiss
Tell him he’s great,
That he’s forgiven,
That it’s not too late.

I’ll cry when he’s dead
When he won’t see,
And won’t feel guilt
And can just love me.