Washing my Father's Hair
I try my best to hide the shock
but we both know that death
has left a shadow on the skin
that stretches over your bones.
Always upright, proper, polite.
Now you slump, with the bag
that performs your basic functions
bulging discreetly beneath
the royal-blue of your pyjamas.
I have never seen you helpless.
You ask me to wash your hair.
Each bubble reflects
the fragile skull that's barely covered
by the white strands.
I am filled with tenderness,
as if you were my child.
The spring scent of shampoo
washes away the hospital odour
and the sadness of your body.
We return to your room
to find supper waiting.
So, I sit while you eat
and occasionally we smile.
Kate Gold lives on the edge of Dartmoor, UK and is a painter, poet and carer for elderly folk with dementia. She completed a Masters degree in Creative Writing with Bath Spa University and has taught creative writing and led poetry workshops in HMP Bristol.