Forgotten

Forgotten

My dad doesn’t know who I am.

Smiles politely, greets

me with his telephone voice.

Thinks he’s staying in a hotel.

Says his room is not that grand.

My dad’s glasses don’t work.

He stumbles, stutters and stalls

through his eye test.

It’s not the optics that fail him,

but his ability, to recall the names

of the letters on the chart.

I’m no great wordsmith.

Have no knack for scrabble,

anagrams, crosswords.

Never seen the point of long words,

when short will do. But I value

my limited capacity

for crafting words.

One day, like Tootles,

I might lose my marbles.

My words may dry up.

Like dad and Terry Pratchett,

to end my days with dementia?

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