Brett Kavanagh

More and more I struggle to remember how old I am

I remember wearing the sequined celebrations

And the jokey couplets often hiding real hope -

Twenty-eight, anticipate; Twenty-nine, cats and wine 

Thirty in Provence arguing about Brett Kavanagh 

With my dying father, showing me the cold shoulder

In a perfume factory. My side of the story: there are

Just some things you don't want to talk about 

With your father. On your birthday. In Provence. 

His side: sad we didn't have a father-daughter relationship 

In which we could debate sexual assault. I thought

I was standing up for myself; I think he thought I was

Standing between some then and now, blocking his passage 

Back to a time when he was in control of the left side 

Of his body, of the time we had left, of other birthdays.

Maybe I am thirty-four now. This age when I can stand 

In my kitchen and look to his ashes on the shelf where 

I keep the ashes and the champagne flutes and 

And with all my love tell him I am still mad at him.