Poetry by Andrew Simpson
My Father Kissed Us Daily
My father kissed us daily, Sometimes tenderly, but mostly quickly, fiercely. “Ten more for thems that’s rubbed off!” he’d shout As we squirmed and giggled Beneath the rat-a-tat-tat of his next attack. Now, holding his fading hand I kiss his seamy forehead And breathe in our years. He presses his palm against the imprint of my lips’ touch “Ten more for thems that’s rubbed off” I whisper. But the hand remains Protecting, preserving my last embrace.
Andy Simpson teaches English Literature in a sixth form college in northwest England. When not extolling the joys of Blake and Keats to his students he maintains his Twitter account Ron Manager Remembers Nottingham, a nostalgia fest of lovely stuff from his formative years.