I know it’s hard times at moment, Dad writes

in a birthday card to Mum, forgetting the
‘the’ before ‘moment’ and briefly becoming

a working-class man from Yorkshire in the process;
a coal miner, bricklayer or hurdle-maker, eating

cheese and pickle ‘pon the heather-coated
moor. Some things come apart in pieces

small enough to shove beneath my fingernails,
like I am a hungry little girl recently introduced

to hummus. I stick my fist in the tub. We sit
outside, on grass. The backs of my thighs itch

like they always will in spring. Some fears
I skate over because they are unfashionable,

though they hang around my ankles
like a tripping hazard. My Razor scooter hits

the bone nub. Black ice slicks the imaginary road
of an American movie. A son, backing out

the drive, heeds a warning from his father
who speaks his love in this paltry language

of transport. Move slowly. Watch out
for the world. There are corners

that can hurt you. Your mother
worries. Stay for coffee. I want

to bear you longer.