Sweetie

It is shaped like

a rugby ball

but lime green.

Taking off the sticky paper

reminds me of

hot spitting coals.

Once in my mouth,

still tasting of cellophane.

It’s a soft shell round a hard core.

Bullets.

That’s what Nana used to call them,

bullets.

She’d have a stash of them in her handbag.

I’d be passing out with travel sickness

before she’d part with one.

“Make it last”, she’d say

popping another in her mouth,

and adjusting her wig in one swift movement.

Why did you come to England?

Name: Charles Mason

English, not the African name.

How can I know the real great granddad

without knowing your real name?

Why did you come to England?

What was wrong with your life on the Gold Coast

that you had to leave all you knew, for another world?

What was the beauty of England
except a word resting on the lips of a sailor?

Why did you come to England?

Looking at your face, with no hint of a smile,

was it worth the sacrifice?

You found a red haired Geordie woman and

two children, you never saw reach double figures.

Why did you come to England?

Daddy

You as a child,

tall for your age, neat hair.

All elbows and knees,

rough rounded joints.

You in chattel,

a circle of dirt as yard.

Heavy rains that pound

on the steel roof.

You crying,

hollow echo like drum.

Because you answered back,

because you asked why.

The mark of the devil

from repeated beatings.

Me as a child,

afro like a halo.

Big soft rolls of flesh,

rough and scuffed knees.

Me in a flat

a concrete veranda with

pebble dashed walls

for idle pickings.

Me crying,

wails of pain pierce our home.

Because I answered back,

because I asked why

Weals of swelling skin

from repeated beatings.