Kippers and Custard

'It’s kippers and custard for dinner, my lad!'

 my Grandad declares with a wink.

I wrinkle my ten-year-old face in disgust

 and I mime throwing up in the sink.

No matter how often I visit his place,

 he makes the same joke on repeat—

shouts 'Kippers and custard!' as I pull a face,

 whenever I ask “What’s to eat?”

I’m twenty-years old and now living with him.

 I’ve a last-minute essay to write.

'No time to help cook… so can we order in?'

 'But it’s kippers and custard tonight!?'

I slump in my chair and theatrically groan

 then busy myself with my books.

He potters around in the kitchen alone

 and croons silly songs while he cooks.

A few more years pass and our roles are reversed:

 I cook while he naps in his chair.

He won’t have to go to a home to be nursed

 so long as I’m there to give care.

The chemo makes all of his dinners taste bland

 so I slather on Worcester sauce.

'What’s cooking there, lad? Can I lend you a hand?'

 'Why, it’s kippers and custard, of course!'

He’s lying in bed and he’s fading away.

 Eternities pass between breaths.

The rest of the family’s come over to stay,

 say goodbye, and prepare for his death.

But here I am keeping the vigil all night

 The morphine pump quietly beeps.

He occasionally wakes in confusion and fright

 and I sing him back into his sleep.

His voice has grown weak, and he no longer sees.

'Is that you, lad?” …I tell him I’m there.

He takes hold of one hand, and he gives it a squeeze,

 While my other hand’s stroking his hair.

'I love you, my lad, with all of my heart,

 but your Grandma is waiting for me.

Chin up. Shoulders back. It’s time I depart.

 …No more kippers and custard for me.'

Ten more years pass and I’m almost okay.

 I’ve a home and a wife and a child.

I start reminiscing. I miss him today

 and remember the way that he smiled.

My four-year-old’s washing her hands in the sink.

 'It’s dinner time, Dad! What’s to eat?'

I smile and I give a mischievous wink:

 'Why, kippers and custard, my sweet!'