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?
