December, 1932, they cracked
the kids' money box, came home singing drunk.
Dadda had played two games for Wales, had

had two wives, two pubs, three means
of support when he landed on my Mum and Dad:
twice the mouths to fill; twenty shirts in Monday's tub.

Down on his cold couch Dadda heard my making.
Slump or not, the doctor said, now I was
in her belly, they must get off her back.

Guilt kept her on the attack years after
Dadda had gone, feet first, back home to Wales.
I saw his dead face in my dad's who had

'FOOL!' round his neck for talking Welsh at school,
but died talking it to Dadda, proud as a bard.