Your father’s tie

has come undone.

Please tie his tie.

Your father is

unravelling,

please take his hand

and tie his tie.

Your father is

a machine.

He is an engineer,

he wears a dust coat

and high-vis colours.

Your father is

a man

who rarely wears a tie,

will you tie his tie

and hold his hand?

Your father

watches the street

from the veranda,

staring at nothing,

swaying in the wind

and leaning on his bad hip.

Please tie him down.

Your father brings

a plate of cut up fruit

to your room.

He forgets to say

I love you

in so many words.

He rarely laughs,

your father,

he smiles with his eyes.

Please tie his tie.

He will not ask.

Your father

gives you fifty dollars

when he remembers,

and tells you to

put it to petrol.

He bends down

so you can reach around

his neck

and tie his tie.

Kiss his head

like he used to do to you

when you were young.

Slide silk and linen

around his neck,

pulling the collar straight,

and look into his face.

Notice how your eyes

share the same space

and colour.

You have watched him grow

and grey,

tucking you in every night

and rising for work

at 4 a.m. daily, as routine

as the sun.

Please tie his tie,

the way he has dressed you

since the day

you arrived

bare

and found home in his arms.

You knot the tie

pressed flush

against his button-up.

He looks

so small,

your father.

You kiss his cheek,

and he smiles.

You look so handsome,

you tell him.

Would you tie his tie

for the rest of his life,

when his hands have crippled

and his back has folded in?

He has orbited you

for so long.

Please stay nearby

and hold him close.

He will not ask.

But when you see

it come undone

do tie his tie,

please tie his tie,

keep his tie tied.