Get Well Soon

Lately I recalled that poem you wrote for me
and my dear old “addies”.
That hand-written letter, uncatalogued
but safely folded and placed
in some unmarked shoebox
with other worthy treasures
to be rediscovered and reread,
reloved years after a ten year old’s fear
of surgery is forgotten.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the hand that wrote that poem
and many others. A life
abridged but rich
in detail, revealed to one who never knew;
or perhaps I never asked
(grandmas and teachers aren’t real people afterall).

That hand that slipped a ring on my grandfather’s finger
and gripped his hand to follow,
and to guide, I’m sure.
That hand that whacked that brat,
my Dad, around the ear
or held him close.
That hand that rationed out mints and barley sugars
which clinked against my teeth
as you prepared your insulin injection.
That right hand of yours told me who you are
and perhaps
who I could be.
Poetry, like diabetes, is genetic.

That hand,
when last we spoke,
was strapped against your body
fractured and silent.

When last we spoke
you, confined to bed,
were quick to voice frustration
but quicker still to laugh.
When last we spoke,
that hand
quietly healing
quiet but pensive.
That hand
with more still to say
and me keen to listen